


See the Line where the Sky meets the Sea

by The_Floating_World



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Although it's in a much less violent way here, Archivist Sasha James, Canon Asexual Character, Gerry Lives, Is Simon a crazy uncle a distant dad or a fun grandpa, Jon is bullied by avatars in every universe, M/M, Minor Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood/Oliver Banks, Power Swap, Vast Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Vast!Jon, if there's no Found Family then what's the point, it's what he deserves, with some major Eye leanings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 12:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24849694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Floating_World/pseuds/The_Floating_World
Summary: When Jon is a child he looks into the infinite abyss of space.  The Vast looks back into him.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Gerard Keay, Jonathan Sims & Michael "Mike" Crew, Jonathan Sims & Simon Fairchild, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims/Oliver Banks
Comments: 564
Kudos: 1407





	1. Protostar

**Author's Note:**

> I just thinks Avatar swaps are fun. This was also just supposed to be a oneshot but I'm at 10,000 words and climbing, so I'll just separate it into 5ish parts of varying length. 
> 
> My characterization of Simon and the Vast may be jossed by the s5 Vast ep when it comes out, but that's just how it be.

Jon often escapes to the sea when he first moves in with his grandmother. He knows from books he has read that being at home is supposed to make you feel safe and happy and content, but Jon has never felt like that. Maybe he did with his parents, but their passing was so sudden that it’s almost like his life before didn’t even happen.

He feels restless and confined in his grandmother’s house. He can sense that she doesn’t want him there. When he’s in the house she always tells him things to do or not to do, and always seems annoyed even when Jon is trying his best to listen to her. It’s suffocating.

So, Jon leaves. He walks around the neighborhood to explore and find new things. Where Jon had lived before hadn’t been by water. Jon didn’t really like Bournemouth until he stumbled upon the beach. 

The ocean is so big! He already knew that, of course, because he’s not dumb. It’s different seeing it, though. He walks along the beach, kicking his feet in the sand, trying to find an angle where he can find the end of the sea. He can’t. It just keeps going and going until it meets the sky and Jon can’t see any further.

Jon thinks the water is pretty, too. He keeps a look out for fish or seals or sharks, even if he doesn’t usually see a lot. The sun glitters off the waves like it’s winking at him. It makes Jon more aware of the sky, and sometimes he’ll lay back on the dock and look at clouds while the sound of the waves lulls him to half-dozing. When he’s not reading a book instead, of course. But he has to be careful because sometimes they’re library books and he can’t risk getting those wet.

Jon could sit at the end of the dock forever if he didn’t have to eat or go to school. His grandmother doesn’t really care where he is so long as he’s back by dark. 

Eventually, though, he can’t sleep one night. The blankets feel like they’re tying up his limbs to the bed and he knows if he tried to turn on the lights to read Gran would know and be upset with him. It itches under his skin until he’s scrabbling up as quietly as he can. He doesn’t bother to change out of his pajamas but does put on his shoes. He creeps out of the house and steals towards the sea.

It’s a decision made entirely on impulse, but now he’s excited. He’s stargazed some by his window, but he hasn’t often been outside late at night. The night sky would probably look even prettier on the dock!

When Jon reaches the beach there is no one else around. He makes his way to his favorite dock and takes a moment to admire the ocean at night, reflecting the cool glow of the moon. After an indeterminable amount of time, he decides to lay on his back and stargaze like he’d look at clouds during the day. 

It would be incorrect to call Jon a “space kid”, or any type of kid with a targeted special interest. Jon hates repeating information, or even books that speak on similar subjects, and is therefore typically unable to become hyper focused on one subject alone.

He has, however, borrowed a book about space from the library before, and found the pictures especially pretty. The simple facts the book gave on space were mind-blowing to a child who has never considered how big the universe is. Other children’s books centered around space are unable to hold his interest, but the first one is still near to his heart. He’d call the images up in his mind as he falls asleep and imagine floating among the stars.

Lying on a dock where light pollution ( _somehow_ ) didn’t reach, his breath is stolen away. It is the first time that he has truly observed the stars, truly realized how vast the galaxy is. Reading about it in a book can’t compare to taking it in with his own eyes. Innumerable pinpricks of light are scattered across an unending black canvas. It is beautiful. It is terrifying.

Jon’s too young to have ever contemplated humanity’s infinitely small existence. But he feels it now, even if he doesn’t have words for it. Being faced with just how big everything is, it freezes him to the dock in surprise and surprising anxiety, eyes staring wide and awed and horrified to the stars. 

The stars shine brightly, twinkling ethereally from a place impossibly far off. Some drip down, falling to earth in silvery drops and landing in Jon’s dark eyes.

( _When he grows older and begins to grey prematurely, people will tell him his hair looks like it’s streaked with starlight_.)

The sea rumbles around him and it is the roar of the stars. The ocean is already so big, how could the sky, how could space, be so much bigger? How many oceans could fit in the sky? Jon knows the earth is surrounded by space; if the sea was able to perfectly reflect the night sky, would it be like being in space? The sky would meet the sea and there would be no end and everything would be lit by the light of stars unnumbered. It’s all too big for Jon to even begin to imagine it.

“Well you’re quite a young one, aren’t you? Awfully small to be thinking so big.”

Jon hadn’t noticed anyone walking up the dock to him, but when his eyes snap away from the sky above him and he quickly whips into a sitting position, he sees a small old man standing behind him.

He’s pink and pretty wrinkly and probably around Gran’s age. It’s hard to tell how old old people are. He’s very thin and his colorful clothing hangs off of him. He’s smiling mischievously at Jon and his blue eyes twinkle brightly. He crouches down to be closer to Jon’s height.

“You’ve got stars in your eyes, boyo! Well, little guy, are you contemplating the Vastness of the universe? The sky? The sea?”

Jon tries to seem unaffected by his recent insight into the depth of the universe even though his heart is still pounding and there’s a wild look in his star-studded eyes, “My _name_ is Jonathan Sims, and I’m not little! _You’re_ very little for an adult! And, and I was just looking at space and the stars. They’re very, very _big_.”

Simon nods along with him, “Vast.”

“Vast,” Jon repeats, assuming that it’s a synonym for big and wanting to seem like he’d known it before. He likes for adults to think he’s smart and take him and his questions seriously. And he suddenly has a lot to say to this strange old man.

“Did you know, did you know that the stars are actually really far away and some could already be dead but their light has to travel _so_ far that we think they’re still there? And, and…” Jon continues, suddenly needing to talk about what he knows about space and its _vastness_. He even peppers in facts about the sea, and how it’s pretty when it reflects lights from space and how he could look at it forever. How it looks like the sky and sea meet in a line and it seems to never end.

“That’s the horizon line, Jonny boy,” the old man happily informs him. 

At some point the man had sat cross-legged on the wooden dock and is nodding along to Jon’s sudden info-dump. Jon can’t help but be thrilled. He’s _never_ had someone listen to him like this. Not an adult or another kid. 

“What’s your name?” Jon suddenly cuts himself off, needing to know.

“I go by the name of Simon Fairchild,” he tips an imaginary hat, “it’s been lovely to talk to you, Jonny! I’ve quite enjoyed your choice in topic.”

Jon’s name is Jon, not Jonny, but he likes Mr. Simon so he decides not to correct him. Mr. Simon begins to lever himself up, groaning about old bones. Jon hops up to help the old man stand up, because he can be polite and he wants to help him. The man laughs and obligingly allows Jon to help. After he stands, he hops a bit and it’s like the wind is beneath his feet. It seems like he probably didn’t need Jon’s help to stand up because he doesn’t seem creaky like Gran at all, but he takes Jon’s hands and dances around with him and it makes Jon laugh.

He gets a little nervous because his or Mr. Simon’s feet sometimes get really close to the edge of the dock, but it never feels like they’re about to fall. Their hopping little dance comes to an end and Jon is breathless with laughter. He feels light like he’s filled with bubbles and stars.

Mr. Simon laughs with him and bops him on the nose, “This has been awfully fun, Jonny, but it’s getting rather late. You should head home for the night and get some sleep. Come find me when you’re older – just look for the Fairchild enterprises. Don’t forget to keep visiting the sea and stargazing!”

Jon doesn’t really want to go but Gran will be _really_ mad if she finds out he’s not in bed. Mr. Simon also says they can talk again, too. Jon reluctantly begins to walk back home, looking back periodically to see Mr. Simon waving or making funny faces. When he turns the corner, he pops back around to take one last look, but the colorful old man is no longer standing on the dock. Jon looks around to find him, because even if Mr. Simon’s pretty spritely for his old age, there’s no way he could have left the beach in the second Jon looked away. 

But he doesn’t find him. As Jon hurries home, he can’t help but he excited for when he’ll see Mr. Simon again. He’ll have to have more to tell him about the stars and space and the sea.

When he visits the ocean, after, he imagines floating down into the water, looking at all the fishes swimming by as it begins darken. It’s a bit scary, but just as the water around him turns pitch black, pinpricks of light start appearing. Jon sinks to the bottom of the ocean and lands amongst the stars. When he looks up, he can see an identical twinkling sky far above him. 

He sees all kinds of stars. He guesses how big they are, even though some are too big for him to see the edges of. He tries to guess how many there are, even though the star sea and star sky both seem endless. He finds out that, like people, stars are born and die. He begins trying to guess how old the stars are, even though the numbers are too big for him to really understand.

He thinks about what it means for space to be on the ground in the water. He comes up with ways it could happen, like stars being trapped in raindrops and falling from the clouds into the sea. Jon walks on top of the water with the stars above and below him. He looks at the nearly invisible line where the sky meets the sea, the horizon, and wonders how far it goes. It goes on forever.

Jon thinks a lot about big things. About Vast things. He thinks it’s only himself that finds it fun, but it’s not only his satisfaction that he feels. 

But he doesn’t realize that until much later, and by then it’s too late.


	2. T Tauri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm happy so many people are here for Vast!Jon. I hope this doesn't disappoint!

Jon receives postcards periodically after meeting Mr. Simon. About once per year.

They all feature some sort of exotic place. The views feature a dazzling shot from far up a famous structure, or a beautiful picture capturing the green-blue hues of foreign waters. Jon can spend hours tracing his finger over them, imagining travelling to new oceans and skies. The cards have “Fairchild Escapes” written on them in various fonts, along with an address to a headquarters in London. They are all addressed to Jonathan Sims.

His Gran thinks it’s just some bizarre form of advertisement. She doesn’t understand why someone is trying to sell a little boy vacation trip packages, but there is likely a mix up with an adult Jonathan Sims that’s living somewhere else and the Jonathan Sims living in her house. She doesn’t see the harm in letting him keep them.

Jon keeps them meticulously tucked away in a shoebox under his bed. He only takes them out if he feels lonely. Occasionally, if he’s feeling particularly unheard by his Gran, he’ll take a postcard with him to his dock. He’ll sit and talk about whatever topic floats through his mind and imagine Mr. Simon is happily listening to him in place of the postcard he sent.

When night hits and the stars flicker into existence, Jon will lay on his back and talk to them instead. It’s a bit like talking to Mr. Simon, too, since he encouraged Jon to keep stargazing by the sea. He would have anyway, but now he feels doubly happy doing it.

Jon talks to the sky, speaking about books and ideas and new facts he learns about it. Jon whispers secrets to the sea, or lets it absorb his tears when the whimsy of sadness occasionally takes his heart. His tears will gently fall to the water, rippling out across its glassy surface. Sometimes, at night, instead of his tear disappearing into the water, it will turn into a little dot of fiery light. Jon will follow its progress as it drifts deeper into the water, until it disappears into its depths.

It doesn’t make Jon feel better, exactly. But he imagines a collection of little star tears at the bottom of the ocean and he likes to think that he can become a scuba diver one day and find them. 

The sky and ocean are too big to bring things like comfort, but Jon finds a sort of peace losing himself in their atmosphere. They’re also great listeners. Sometimes he’s sure the stars twinkle back at him if he talks his way through a particularly big ( _Vast_ ) concept. Bigness is relative to how old Jon is. What seems big to him one year will seem very simple the next. But there’s always something bigger to think about. 

Jon continues this routine as he gets older, although he begins to think of the sky listening as figurative. A childish flight of fancy. The weirdest imaginary friend a kid could come up with.

It’s funny how sometimes growing up makes you understand less. 

Jon’s small hands hold his carefully un-creased postcards and he continues to lose himself in the sky and sea.

* * *

_A Guest for Mr. Spider_ sits tauntingly on the step of the door that had just opened to the home of a nightmare. Ben is gone, his face frozen in a rictus of horror forever burned into Jon’s mind. 

Jon’s body is similarly frozen for an unknowable amount of time. He may have stood stalk still and stared at the book and closed door for an eternity. But eventually he is able to pull in breaths bigger than the barest whisper, and it feels like his limbs come slowly back to life.

He should run home and put as much distance between him and the evil book as possible.

The sun is rapidly setting, and contrary to how he’s sure most kids his age would feel, it’s a relief. The stars will be out soon, and the night sky will brilliantly paint the gently moving canvas of the sea.

It’s this thought that prompts something in him to grab some discarded bits of newspaper lying about and use it to cautiously pick up the book. A shiver runs down his spine and he imagine he can feel bristly spider legs tip-toeing tauntingly on his arms. It takes everything in him not to throw the book away from him.

He grips the book tighter between the flimsy shield of the newspapers and begins to hurry towards the beach. He wants to push his legs as fast as possible, but he’s afraid of jostling the book and his knee begins to sting from where it has scraped when he had been pushed down. The cuts on his palms smear vivid red blood on the black and white paper.

_Is that a gift for Mr. Spider?_

Jon sees its bulbous body in every doorway. The shadows lengthen with the setting sun. Every tree casts a dark leg, cars a giant abdomen, the more abstract shadows are quivering pincers or a jaunty hat. 

Jon’s breath wheezes in his ears and he gives a keening whine in disconsolate terror. It feels like his heart is shaking with the rest of his body and his feet just want to stop moving. But he doesn’t stop because the rushing of waves is in his ears and the first of the stars spring to life. It sits above where he knows the ocean is and it feels like it’s guiding him.

Jon takes a last turn and makes it to the entrance of the beach. He begins clumsily trekking over the sand. The waves are choppier than usual, lapping at the shore like hungry grasps. Jon likes to think it knows what he’s come to do.

_Mr. Spider doesn’t like it_.

Jon’s feet trip on themselves and he falls on his belly. The air wooshes out of him but he just manages to keep his arms aloft and grip firm. He climbs resolutely to his knees without shedding any tears. If anything, determination has sparked in his gut. He’s close, and Mr. Spider knows it.

_Now, you wouldn’t want to be rude, would you Jon?_

_You know what happens to rude guests._

But the ocean is rumbling in his ears and he makes it to the dock. The wood creaks under his feet as he makes it to the end. He looks up and the star winks back at him. Jon nods and throws the book.

**_NO_ **

The newspaper wrapping flies off as the book falls to the water with an unusually loud splash.

Jon can see it as it sinks. Mr. Spider is furious. Well-fed and hideously bulging, red smeared around its mouth and eyes staring furiously into Jon. The plate _From the Library of Jurgen Leitner_ glints in the fading light. It disappears into the dark.

Jon sits down and cries. He cries even more, because he has to scoot back from his favorite place at the edge because he’s afraid Mr. Spider will reach up from the depths and grab him. He wishes desperately he could fly to the stars where it could never get him.

Jon visits his dock still, but he can no longer lets his feet lazily graze the water. He’ll look at how it reflects the sun and the moon and the stars, and trace the horizon line, but he never again looks into the sea.

A nightmare lives in the ocean now. It contains it, because Jon can’t imagine anything stronger than the ocean, except the sky. But Jon’s heart can’t believe that Mr. Spider is gone. That it isn’t laying at the bottom of the ocean, among alien fish and long-forgotten detritus. Hating Jon, and waiting for him to make a mistake.

As Jon cries bright tears into the sea, it feels like a goodbye.

* * *

Vastness comes in many forms. The sky is vast. The sea is vast. Space is, truly, vast. But so is knowledge. The breadth of some numbers is infinite. The number of sand grains on all the beaches in the world, or atoms in the universe. There is the concept of eternity that still bends his mind to think about. 

Despite what Simon will later tell him he expected, Jon’s first victim is not taken into the infinite horizon between the sea and sky.

Instead, Jon is in the halls of upper secondary school, fourteen and at least a year younger than his peers. There is a boy that constantly bullies him, making fun of his height, his secondhand clothes, and apparent nerdiness. He takes great joy in pushing Jon around or taking his things. 

Jon isn’t a stranger to bullying, per-say, but he’s honestly a bit too mean for most kids to think it’s worth going at him for long. Jon can tear into people even when he doesn’t mean to, nonetheless when he’s actually feeling defensive. There’s also something about him, a glint in his eye and an airy distance in his demeanor, that puts people off.

Perhaps Gregory Dimple is simply too stupid to care for these things. 

He’s certainly not smart. That’s why he’s constantly trying to bully Jon into doing his homework for him. It’s absolutely annoying. Jon has not once agreed to Gregory’s demands and there’s no reason to think he will now.

His current situation is a bit Jon’s fault, maybe. Jon doesn’t have many friends, but he’s friendly with a few people. One of them is a girl, Janice. She really likes space and they trade facts during breaks. She’d even painted him a watercolor of a night sky. It’s not necessarily the most skillful of paintings, but Jon has carefully stored it with his collection of postcards under his bed. 

Gregory decides to go after Janice one day, and Jon simply hadn’t been able to tolerate it. Jon’s not very brave but he’s not afraid to snap at some dumb boy who’s being mean to his kind-of friend. Gregory certainly is no Mr. Spider, and Jon had gotten to best of it ( _for now_ ) after all.

The other boy takes this as Jon challenging him, or some rubbish. It’s not like he hasn’t dealt with Gregory for what feels like forever by now, but something in Jon snaps today. 

“C’mon, Jon, it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do. You haven’t got any friends because you’re a weirdo so it’s not like you have plans to hang out with anyone. Just do my homework.”

“ _No_ ,” Jon says as he continues down the hall, trying to ignore the other boy.

But a meaty hand grabs his bag and pulls it off his shoulder. Jon stumbles a bit as Gregory carelessly allows Jon’s books and papers to fall out of it. He sneers, “Oh, come on. Stop acting like you’re better than me and do the bloody homework! That big brain of yours needs to have some use.”

Jon sees red. Or, he sees bright blue. Or, he sees matte black dotted with white.

“Gregory, if you could even begin to understand how stupid you are, maybe you could stop bothering me and start reading a book for once in your life and do your homework yourself. The amount of what you don’t know is truly staggering. Actually, why don’t you do that? Go find out just how much you don’t know.”

The other boy seems to freeze, Jon’s bag going slack in his hands. Jon grabs his bag back and hastily gathers his things before the bully can shake himself from whatever stupor he’s caught in. He doesn’t look back as he leaves the school.

The next day in class, Jon doesn’t notice anything amiss until he tunes into the whispers and stares of his classmates. He follows their eyes to a desk a bit behind him.

Gregory looks horrible. Like he hasn’t slept in days, despite Jon having seen him just yesterday. His eyes are very uncharacteristically glued to a book, a queasy look on his face. Jon sees his mouth moving, and when he listens closer, he hears him say in a hoarse, horrified voice, “too much, it’s too much…there’s so much, so much…”

No one says anything to him, put off by his odd behavior. It’s not until their teacher comes in that the uneasy tension is cut. She ends up calling on Gregory for a question, and he _bursts_.

“I don’t know! I don’t know! There’re so much that I don’t know – too much! How could it all stay in my head? It’s too much, too much!”

Their teacher is unable to calm him down and his parents are eventually called in. They take him home and he never comes back. Rumors say that he’s send to a special school or the hospital or the loony bin. Jon doesn’t think asylums exist anymore, so he highly doubts the latter.

It’s a bizarre occurrence, but people say that Gregory was a little unhinged at times anyway. Jon thinks he seemed like a pretty average bully. He tries to put it behind him. It can’t have anything to do with him.

But he can’t help but remember the fate of another bully, so long ago, and the words he had said to Gregory the day before his meltdown. Dread coils in his stomach.

Jon doesn’t fully accept that it wasn’t a coincidence until months later. He’s walking along the ocean at night, enjoying how it clears his mind, when he notices a solitary figure out on the dock. He has already approached them, asking them to count the number of stars ( _of which there are innumerable out tonight, too many, more than he’s ever seen and sure that some don’t even exist_ ) and is reaching his hand out to push them into the sea, which is a perfect reflection of the sky and seems infinitely deep, before he realizes what’s happening.

To his shame, it isn’t Jon’s own willpower or moral fiber that stops him from pushing some stranger into dark waters ( _water he swears is the sky_ ). Instead, he trips on an uneven board of the wooden dock and is snapped out of whatever trance he is in. He’s horrified by his actions and immediately flees.

What’s wrong with him? He’s never had impulses like that before – he’s not some kind of violent sociopath.

More urgently, he’s terrified that something in him is discontented that he hadn’t pushed the man over. Something in him rebels at his retreat. That something else doesn’t feel altogether a part of him.

Which sounds completely crazy, and he spends a few good days trying to convince himself that he’s feeling things that aren’t there. He sits, hunched in his bed and feeling genuinely sick enough that Gran lets him skip the last few days of school for the week. He doesn’t bother trying to tell her what’s wrong. She didn’t believe him about Mr. Spider, or the disappearance of Ben, and she’s hardly likely to listen to him now. It’s all beyond the pale.

Unfortunately for Jon’s logical mind, the truth has been unfurling like a flower for quite a while. Whatever happened to Gregory was his fault. He’s also sure that if he had pushed that person into the water, they would not have come back up despite its relatively shallow depths.

The two occurrences seem relatively disparate, but in a fit of intuition he knows what they have in common: Vastness.

He reaches under his bed and pulls out his old shoebox. He grabs one of the postcards at random and looks intently at the address printed on it. Jon puts on a hoody, carefully stows the postcard in its pocket, and dumps out his backpack so he can put in things he’ll need for his trip to London.

He has to find Mr. Simon. 

Or, Mr. Fairchild. Jon isn’t a baby anymore; he can’t call the old man what he did when he was six. If the old man is even still alive.

Jon is sure that he is. Something in Simon Fairchild seemed incredibly youthful, even everlasting, despite his apparent advanced age. He’s still indelibly etched into Jon’s mind even though it has been over half his life since he met the man for a solitary night.

The postcards helped to make sure that Jon wouldn’t completely forget him, but even with his unique kindness, there’s no reason Jon’s child mind should have retained his image so sharply. Jon can’t help but think that Mr. Fairchild will have answers for him.

He has to hope he’s right, because something is happening to Jon that makes him dangerous, and he has no clue how to stop it.

* * *

Jon stands in front of the doors to the building listed on the cards sent by Fairchild Escapes. Jon likes it. It’s a fairly tall building made of glass that reflects the blue of the sky. Unfortunately, it does not have the name of what company is housed there on it. Jon is reluctant to step into a fancy building that may not even contain what he’s looking for, but feels he doesn’t really have any other choice.

His hand pushes on a door that’s so smooth it’s almost slick. It opens soundlessly. Jon hesitantly steps his beat-up trainers on the spotless tile floor. As he approaches the front desk, the secretary looks curiously at him.

“Are you lost? Do you need me to call your parents?” she asks once he’s near enough.

“Um, no. I have this and I’m looking for Mr. Simon- I mean, Mr. Fairchild,” Jon says as he pulls out the postcard to show her.

She makes a funny face, “You’re looking for Simon Fairchild? I’m not quite sure what you’re doing here, kid, but—”

“Oh, are you Jonny? I can tell by the eyes! And, well, everything else, of course. Simon’s been wondering when you’d eventually drop by. Wondering and whining,” an airy feminine voice calls.

The elevator closes smoothly behind the back of a tall woman. She’s dressed in clothing Jon can vaguely tell is expensive and is tugging a glove onto her hand. She looks up and smiles slyly at Jon. He’s not certain how he feels about her, but she seems to know Mr. Fairchild, and he’s certain the secretary was about to shoo him off. 

He reluctantly approaches her, bending his head back to look at her weirdly cloudy grey eyes, “My name is Jonathan Sims. I, uh, prefer to be called Jon. I need to talk to Mr. Fairchild.”

The woman nods along and says, “He’ll be terribly disappointed that you don’t have that cute attitude he talked about before. But you’re a teenager now and not a little child, so I suppose it’s to be expected. Come with me; you’re lucky he’s in. I’m Harriet, by the way. Harriet Fairchild. Just call me Harriet.”

Jon follows her back to the elevator, observing her from the corner of his eye. She doesn’t look anything like Mr. Fairchild. Maybe she’s a niece or a cousin or something. Or, some kids just don’t look like their parents. She’s probably the right age to be Mr. Fairchild’s daughter. They’ve both got that same _something_ about them, so it fits.

They don’t say anything else until the elevator stops a bit later. The windows in the hall seem to indicate they’re on the top floor. The people milling about in the streets below look like ants. Jon’s never been this high up before, but he doesn’t feel particularly nervous. London’s probably too smoggy to see the stars very well, but he bets they’d look even more spectacular from this height.

Jon follows Harriet’s clicking heels to a door at the end of the hallway. She opens it without announcing herself.

A jovial voice says, “Oh, back so soon, Harriet? Couldn’t bear to be parted from your favorite—”

“You’ve got a visitor,” Harriet cuts in, “I think you’ll be pleased. And you can stop bothering me for a while. Not to mention poor Mike.”

Jon takes that as his cue to come in as the other voice, recognizably Mr. Fairchild, says, “Aw, don’t say that. Mike will come around! I know he likes talking to me, really, under his absolutely dead-eyed and stoic façade.”

Jon slips through the door and shuts it behind him. He looks up and sees the same old man who had sat with him on his dock, years ago. He’s a bit older, perhaps, but his eyes and smile and bright clothes look exactly the same.

“Jonny boy!” he exclaims, delighted, “I was wondering when you’d grace us with your presence. I knew you’d be smart enough to track us down when the time came.”

Jon feels incredibly awkward, “It’s nice to meet you again, Mr. Fairchild.”

“None of that! Call me Simon. Mr. Fairchild is my father.”

“Er, right. Simon.” It feels absolutely wrong to call an old man by his first name and he feels like an apparition of his grandmother is going to appear at any second to reprimand him for impoliteness.

“Much better! Now, Jonny, what prompted you to seek me out this fine day?”

Jon opens his mouth to calmly build a story surrounding the events that brough him here. He sees the twinkle in Simon’s blue eyes and something in him knows the man already has some idea of what he’ll say and, most importantly, believe him.

Very similarly to when six-year-old Jon found someone who would listen to him for the first time, it all comes rushing out. Mr. Spider, Ben, Gregory, the stranger at the dock. The sea, the sky, the stars.

Simon looks contemplative for the first time, “a Web Leitner? That’s quite a spot of bad luck – I’m impressed you were able to sort that out as efficiently as you did. More interestingly, tell me again about your interactions with Gregory.”

So, Jon did. And Simon told him why he finds what he did to Gregory interesting. He doesn’t know anyone Vast-aligned with powers like that.

Jon asks him what he means by that. So, Simon tells him about the fourteen fear gods that influence the world.

Jon wants to believe that Simon Fairchild is lying to him, trying to pull a prank on an unsuspecting teenager. But he knows he’s telling the truth. It’s hard to deny a truth that’s been with him since he was six. 

Instead of going through denial, which he may circle back around to later, he instead grills Simon about the Entities, and Leitners, and what it all means. Harriet chimes in occasionally too, if Simon is becoming frustratingly circular on his points. She also elaborates on the Fairchild Vast empire; which Jon puts aside to think about later.

Jon’s more or less numb to it all in some sort of unsurprised shock until Simon locks his sky-blue eyes with Jon’s, “you, Jonny, have a particular role to play in this, just like Harriet and I. You’ve been a burgeoning avatar for the Vast since you were a child. It’s quite interesting, hearing how you’ve interacted with it. The Vast seems to have been fairly content on feeding on your attempts to understand it, and your dedication to the sea and stars, but you’re starting to inherit powers now. You will need to start feeding it, or it will feed on you.”

It’s quiet in the wake of his declaration. Jon tries to close his eyes against it, but the stars are on the back of his lids. He loves them. He knows they want to be fed. 

It’s useless to deny it, but Jon still says, “I’m not doing it until after I graduate. I don’t want to do anything else to my classmates or the people around Bournemouth.”

“It doesn’t really work like that. Although, I suppose your relatively restricted life could cause problems; the aren’t many avatars as young as you. The most famous of them hardly had the same things to worry about. I could always just adopt you and it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“No,” Jon blinks in surprise, “Thanks, but I’m fine. I just won’t use my powers for the next few years, and I’ll figure something out after.”

Simon frowns a little, “I don’t think this is a good idea, Jonny. I can’t say the Vast will wait until you’re ready. Then again, it’s been this long, hasn’t it? I can’t say I know your exact relationship to our god. Hm, I suppose as long as you check in so I know your mind isn’t eating itself in vast questions, it’s your choice.”

Jon agrees and he’s bustled off with the personal number for Simon Fairchild, who turns out to be one of the riches people in London. Harriet later sends boxes of new clothes to his house, which he furiously makes trips to London to try to return. He’s not very successful.

Jon distances himself from the classmates he’s friendly with. He’s nervous about himself. He didn’t mean to send Gregory into a spiral, or almost push a person off the dock. He doesn’t want to risk hurting them. His classmates naturally drift away from him, having other friends.

It’s a surprise when Janice gives him a handmade card for graduation. He opens it, and it is a splendid painting full of stars. She says his eyes inspired her. He thanks her and never talks to her again.

The card is placed carefully with his postcards and her first watercolor. He keeps it for the rest of his life.

* * *

There are only a few notable incidents for the rest of secondary school.

He once doesn’t sleep well for a week because he gets caught in a loop of contemplating eternity. It only ends when one of his teachers asks what’s wrong and he tells her. The rest of the year is marked by random outbursts of rambling philosophical tangents, her mumbling about the implications and nature of eternity. 

The most notable class is when she tries to combine some philosophical approach and what appears to be a branch of physics ( _he doesn’t know much about physics, but he feels fairly confident in saying the scribbles on the board look more like pseudo-science than anything_ ) to prove eternity. Or something. It’s not very clear, but after she is hustled out of the class by the principle and put on leave for a week, she seems a bit more stable when she gets back. Would still go on rants every so often and obsessively draws infinity signs when not focused on a topic, but better. She remains so by the time he graduates, so Jon lets his guilt die down a little.

Another time he offhandedly points out to a tourist how the sea can perfectly reflect the sky if you look at it from a certain angle. The next day he comes back to see the same man staring intently at the reflection in the water like he’s Narcissus. 

Jon is disconcertingly unsurprised to notice that the water shows no reflection of the man’s face; only the sky.

By the end of secondary school, Jon is _tired_. He’s had his few incidents, has tortured himself into attempting to study higher maths and quantum physics to contemplate vast concepts, and spends even more time stargazing to the point he often dozes off during the day. But it’s clear to him that he needs to feed. He needs to give something more to the Vast if he doesn’t want to be consumed by it, like Simon has told him

The stars seem over-bright to his eyes and the waves whisper their hunger in his ears. 

“Almost, almost,” he tells them in the months leading up to his graduation. They hardly seem content, but he’s a bit more aware of the world with the promise of something soon to come.

Jon graduates with an internship at Fairchild Inc. It’s the parent company of a variety of rather diversified enterprises. His job description for the internship is fairly vague, but Gran seems satisfied enough will Jon taking a “gap year” for what seems to be a prestigious intern program. 

Jon supposes he can’t tell her that he’s going to be learning how to be a monster.

* * *

Jon meets Michael Crew on his first day at Fairchild Inc. 

He’s both older than Jon and shorter. Jon’s hardly the pinnacle of height, so it’s a fairly unique experience. He’s thin and pale, with an interesting scar tracing up his neck in branch-like figures. His eyes are cool and pale as they stare steadily into Jon’s. The smell of ozone wafts through the air around him.

Simon had warned him not to stare overtly at Mike’s scar, and Jon’s Gran had taught him it’s rude to stare, so Jon is just able to pull his eyes away from it. He looks awkwardly anywhere but at it instead. Simon happily begins introductions.

“Mike here is the newest to Become a Vast avatar before you, Jonny. I brought him here so he could show you the ropes.”

“Please call me Jon. Are you sure he knows what he’s doing? Why can’t Harriet mentor me instead?” Jon unthinkingly says.

“Of course he does! Mike is the only other one who has chosen not to take the Fairchild name, so you’ll both likely have a lot to bond over.”

“Are you punishing me for not taking your – may I remind you, _fake_ – last name by saddling me with some rude kid?” Mike asks.

“I am seventeen, not a _child_ ,” Jon says childishly.

Mike gives Simon a deadpan look, to which he laughingly responds, “You’ll be good for each other!”

When Mike and Jon are later left alone together, Mike reluctantly says, “So, I’m going to be teaching you how to feed the Vast, or something?”

“I don’t want to kill anyone.”

“Right. So, that’s not really an option if you want to survive.”

“I’m sure you just haven’t thought of a way.”

A glower shades Mike’s otherwise impassive face and a tug of sudden vertigo rocks Jon on his feet.

That’s pretty much how it goes.

* * *

Jon knows he probably shouldn’t like Simon Fairchild. The man has pretty much admitted that he happily sacrifices people to his god ( _Jon’s god_ ). He’s definitely someone his grandmother wouldn’t approve of, just based off the way he dresses and acts alone.

But Simon had known Jon would need to find him, and has been sending him a trail to lead him here since he was a kid. He didn’t need to care; he could have left Jon to flounder and wonder what on earth was happening to him. He supposes Simon seems to have a vested interest in anyone aligned with the Vast, but it still means something that he’s remembered Jon for all these years.

He’s not used to adults talking so fondly of him, worried about how he’s doing yet leaving him free to make his own choices. Gran doesn’t bother him overmuch, but that’s from lack of energy, not disapproval. Simon wasn’t thrilled at Jon’s decision to put off purposefully feeding the Vast, but he seems content in leaving Jon to his choices. 

Simon sitting and listening to him for what must have been hours still plays in Jon’s mind. Jon knows he could be an insufferable child, and that he surely didn’t have anything to tell Simon that he didn’t already know. The old man even did a silly dance with him afterwards, to make him laugh. 

It’s a bit ominous, now, knowing that the man was encouraging a child to pursue his patron. However, from what Mike has said, the Entities don’t really let go of someone once they’ve noticed them, and Simon probably wouldn’t have noticed Jon if the Vast already hadn’t. Was he trying to ensure that Jon would become and avatar instead of a meal for it?

He’s hesitant to ascribe purely altruistic characteristics to Simon Fairchild. If he’s been alive as long as people have implied to Jon, he’s sure to be indifferent to quite a lot by now. Jon’s not sure how much the old man cares for children versus adults. It’s probably not smart to think fondly of someone who is likely a monster.

But Jon can’t really help it. He’s weak to the sort of kindness and attention that Simon gives to him. He knows enough about amateur psychology from an elective in school that he likely has a complex towards parental figures, considering his dearth of them growing up. That doesn’t make Jon fear disappointing Simon any less.

Although he may have to, if he wants to cling to whatever humanity he has left after unknowingly communing with an eldritch being for most of his life.


	3. Main Sequence

For a teenager, the matter of having to essentially sacrifice people to survive is both a simple and complex matter. On the one hand, it’s pretty obvious that killing people ( _although Jon’s past experience with his powers has made this eventuality rather ambiguous_ ) is wrong. But he shouldn’t have to die either, right?

At seventeen, Jon has heard his peers have several discussions based around the question “what would you do if…”. Some of these include “what would you do if you were a vampire and had to eat people” or “If you could get a million dollars but had to kill someone” and the like.

Several a smug teen would confidently reply back “I’d just kill evil people, like murderers or rapists” as of they’d gamed the system. Jon has these thoughts in mind as he’s pushed out into the world to go “hunt” for a target. It seems like a decent enough solution to him.

Unfortunately, fear gods don’t work the way teens looking to find clever answers would like them to.

They don’t care about what sort of person you are. All they want is fear. When Jon is walking around London, he is able to sense if someone is afraid of large spaces, or the sea, or is easily overwhelmed contemplating large numbers or complicated equations or theories.

He has no idea if they’re a bad or good person. Only if they’re afraid. Afraid of something Vast-aligned, specifically. Apparently, some of the things he can sense are a bit more esoteric than a lot of the other Vast avatars. He isn’t certain if that’s a good thing. Or if there are strictly “good” things in his life anymore.

Jon does his best to find someone he thinks could be evil to sacrifice. He sardonically thinks it’d be easier if he was white, and had racial biases he could lean on. But any worn-down brown person he can see has been beat down by society, rather than being a degenerate looking to tear society down. So, he looks and looks, feeling lightheaded as his mind begins ringing with the sheer number of people in London and all of the possibilities that go into measuring out whether someone has lived a net-good or bad life.

“This is ridiculous.”

A hand grabs Jon and he is steered unresisting where it wants him to go. His legs feel coltish as he staggers to keep up.

“I can’t be encouraging you to do this, but Simon will never let me live it down if I let you die already. You’re going to have to let go of your human beliefs eventually; you’re not human anymore. You don’t live like them, and you don’t eat like them.”

The motion stops. The world is suddenly still as Jon’s head is turned to look at a man walking down the sidewalk. He’s a bit younger than middle-aged and walks with a confident gait.

The man is scared to go to prison. He’s scared of how long the years in jail would feel, how immense the waste of his life and potential would be. He dreads it. He is not scared for no reason.

He is already marked by the Vast. He’s marked because he had grown tired of his wife. Instead of divorcing her and risk having to give her some of his money, he takes her on a nice vacation to the mountains. Kristen loves the mountains, loves being high up. She’s known to be a bit of a daredevil amongst their friends. That’s why it’s so easy for them to believe that her falling from one of the mountain’s peaks is a tragic accident. The sky looks blue and endless as he watches her freefall.

Jon stands in front of the man. The man’s face is twisted in annoyance, but Jon can’t hear what he’s saying. Kristen’s body falling through the air, grasping for a beloved person and sky who responds with apathy, races through his mind.

“A human life can have an incalculable impact on the world. One act of kindness can create a ripple of goodwill that results in someone being saved where they would not have otherwise. An act of unkindness breeds hatred that seeps through society like a mold. Each life is a pocket of infinite possibilities. What do you think Kirsten would have done with hers?”

“What the hell are you—” the man looks nervous, stepping back.

“Kristen was kind. Kristen had aspirations. She wanted to go back to school – maybe she would have been a doctor or teacher. Maybe she would have continued to work as a waitress, and caught a dish contaminated with peanuts that would have otherwise killed a child. It is impossible to know. The possibilities are _infinite_. Think about it. Think about all the lives Kristen could have lived. Think of all of the lives she could have touched. Consider all of the possibilities of futures that you killed with her.”

Keening wrenches itself out of the man’s throat. His hands grip his hair tight between his fingers as he sinks to his knees. His eyes bulge and Jon sees the branching lines of possibility, endless and innumerable, blooming behind them. He will not die, but he will also never be free.

Jon feels content. He feels wholly healthy for the first time in he doesn’t know how long. He hadn’t even known he was feeling so weak before this moment. He blinks down at the man writhing at his feet in indifference.

The hand, Mike’s he realizes now, comes back to his shoulder and steers him away. People begin to congregate around the man. Someone is on the phone with the paramedics.

“Well, that was something. More elaborate than pushing someone off a building. I prefer my methods.”

Jon blinks and the world focuses in vivid color. He has just driven a man to near-insanity by contemplating the vast potential of possibility. It’s not as if he didn’t know he could do something similar, considering his secondary school teacher, but this case is much more visceral.

It’s good that the man is getting retribution for killing his wife. Jon doesn’t feel bad about that. His stomach is queasy with the knowledge that he very deliberately hurt the man in a permanent way. He feels as much horror as satisfaction.

“You know, you’re not always going to find a guy like that. We’re not vigilantes. We don’t go after ‘bad’ people. If you try to hold out every time until you’ve found someone who murdered their wife or kicked a puppy or whatever, you will die.”

Finding that man was a fluke. Jon knows this. The possibility of always finding a person with a relevant fear for Jon to sense and also having committed a heinous act is infinitesimal. It’s not something he wants to accept, but something he knows is the truth.

That doesn’t mean he’s just going to be okay with hurting people. He’s definitely not going to kill people. He’ll just have to find a way.

Feeling better than he has in years, Jon’s hands shake as he follows Mike back to Fairchild Inc.

* * *

Jon spends the rest of the year driving Mike up a wall, wrestling with his “feeding”, and following Simon whenever he requests Jon’s presence.

Jon does have to acknowledge that Mike tries his best as Jon’s assigned mentor. Despite not taking the Fairchild name, Simon still finances most of his life, so it seems he likely doesn’t have much of a choice. Mike is actually pretty good at answering most of Jon’s questions about the Entities. He has cursory to surprisingly intimate knowledge about most of them. One of the most interesting facts he gives is that, apparently, many avatars give off a sort of aura.

“It’s a bit hard to describe. There’s the base feeling that humans already have; the ‘there’s something wrong with that person’ or ‘that person is dangerous’. Being marked by an entity makes a person hypersensitive to anything that entity has touched. 

Being an avatar is another matter. Obviously, you’re in tune with your specific god. On top of that, it’s easier to pick out other avatars. Some of them like the Corruption’s are dead obvious, but that’s not always the case. The Buried aren’t always covered in mud. I can still pick one out immediately if they’re near me. We’re most sensitive to them, since they’re our opposites, but I can still spot a Hunter or one of the Desolation easily enough. 

I don’t know why this is the case. Maybe we’re sensitive to each other since all of the fears are supposedly connected. Who knows; let the Eye’s try and figure it out. Either way, meeting an avatar tends to give you a better impression of the fear as a whole. Even if they’re only one aspect of it. I guess I can introduce you to some people I know, if you promise not to be completely intolerable.”

Mike is not pleased that Jon interprets this as “go out and find avatars to stalk”, but what else did he really expect to happen. After a tense encounter with a woman who begins to muse how supple Jon looks as saliva drips out of the corner of her mouth ( _which is as disgusting as it is terrifying_ ), only defused by Mike appearing and giving her a ride through the sky, Jon agrees to dial down his searches. For now.

So, Mike isn’t that bad, really. He even mostly gives up on sending Jon’s stomach swooping to his throat every time he annoys him after a few months. The problem is that Mike is content with the reality of being a monster, and Jon is not.

Every time Jon feels the gnawing at his soul to feed, he painstakingly locates someone with a fear that he can exploit in a non-lethal way.

He finds that if he doesn’t wait until he’s almost starving, his feeding is gentler. If that’s a word you could associate with anything to do with the Entities. 

Jon’s attack on Kristen’s husband was vicious. He hadn’t realized he was starving, even when he abstractly knew he would die if he didn’t feed. The disconnect he experienced with reality and the displeasure of the stars made that clear enough leading up to his graduation. The voraciousness he felt as he ripped into the man was still something he hadn’t expected.

So Jon has to sacrifice having a smaller number of victims for not harming them so deeply. It’s a quandary he spends weeks debating with himself about. Absolutely every Vast avatar besides Simon is sick of him before he decides. Simon tells him that sometimes he’ll throw someone from a great height just for the hell of it. Jon doesn’t talk to him for a week.

There’s not necessarily a pattern to when Jon’s hunger reaches a breaking point. Sometimes it’s months before his god ( _a phrase he uses sparingly_ ) demands sacrifice. Sometimes it begins strumming at his soul within a few weeks.

He finds people afraid of the size of the universe, how long life seems, the possibility of a comet landing on them, the immensity of certain feelings, the conceptualization of large numbers, and so on. The fears of Vastness Jon can find are many and varied.

He’ll leave them dreaming about floating through endless space, feeling every second as it passes by in seeming slow motion, seeing comets streak by in the sky and every reflected surface, sitting paralyzed under the weight of their emotions, and agonizing at what it means for someone to be a billionaire.

Simon puts his foot down at Jon actively checking on his victims afterwards. It’s one of the only specific things Mike isn’t to allow him to do. But Jon is fairly certain none of them have died. Many are likely even able to move on from the experience, or at least cope with it enough to live their life.

It’s not nearly as satisfying as what he did to the man. He’s certain actually feeding someone’s life to the Vast would provide him with even more power. He can feel the relative weakness of not giving his patron exactly what it wants. Jon’s surviving, and he definitely feels better than when he wasn’t actively feeding the Vast at all, but he always feels at least a trace of hunger in his soul. A gnawing dissatisfaction. It sucks at Jon’s self-control like a black hole. It’s only the knowledge that it’s people’s life on the line that keeps him buoyed from being pulled under.

Guilt haunts his thoughts. Jon’s still a monster when he doesn’t want to be. He has to cling to his humanity as long as he can. He just doesn’t want to die.

It doesn’t help that it’s incredibly hard to aim any of his resentment to the sky or stars when they’re one of the only constants in his life. He loves them despite knowing that they ( _or at least the fear god whose Domain they lie in_ ) are why he’s suffering and causing others to suffer.

When Jon appears too morose, Simon demands his presence on one of his trips around the world. He’ll take Jon when he’s not stewing, too. He says that no self-respecting avatar of the Vast remains cooped up in one place. Apparently, that means that Jon has to go to nearly as many countries as years he’s lived within one year.

Sometimes the trips are a whim and sometimes they’re business. Either way, Jon is always tagging along in Simon’s wake. Despite not looking anything alike, people often mistake him for Simon’s grandson. There’s “just something about them” that makes their relation evident.

Simon is delighted. Jon sighs and adjusts his glasses.

Jon knows by now that his eyes are rather distinctive, and hopes that his glasses prevent others from taking a good look at them. The last thing he needs is for another person to get lost in his eyes. It’s not like he doesn’t need them anyway. He doesn’t have the worst vision, but it does go somewhat blurry after so far.

It’s on one of these outings, about seven months into his “internship”, that Jon finds himself leaning back on the handrail of an outlook with Simon beside him. This is one of Simon’s vacation trips. His bright outfit makes him look the role of a tourist. The shirt that he forced on Jon unfortunately makes him look the same.

They had been chatting about nothing in particular when Simon decides to take another crack at convincing Jon to stop limiting himself. Jon really wishes he would give up.

“On the grand scale of things, suffering to spare however many lives over your lifetime doesn’t really matter. There’s no point to resisting your nature, Jonny.”

“If their lives don’t matter, then my suffering hardly does either,” Jon grumbles back.

“Touché!” he laughs, “perhaps it’s just that I don’t want to see you suffer needlessly. You’ll fall to the Vast’s urgings eventually – no one can resist their patron’s call forever – and all this time put into martyring yourself won’t have meant anything. You don’t need to make it hard on yourself.

Jon sets his jaw stubbornly, but doesn’t say anything. Simon’s probably right. He’s been around long enough that he certainly knows more about these things than Jon. But how could Jon forgive himself if he just gives up because not killing people is _hard_? He doesn’t want to be able to forgive himself.

Simon lets go of the topic good-naturedly. There’s no reason to think Jon won’t give in sooner than later.

He still doesn’t know Jon very well.

* * *

Despite taking what could charitably be called a “gap year”, Jon still intends to attend Uni. The thought of not getting a degree rankles his pride. He aims for Oxford. He gets in, though he never is able to shake the suspicion that Simon may have secretly pulled some strings ( _he didn’t_ ).

Jon double majors in astronomy and oceanography. Which is perhaps not the smartest choice considering he is not overly inclined to the sciences. But Matilde Fairchild had made a comment on how Jon is certainly going to go into something like English or the Classics, with no relevance to their god at all.

And frankly, Jon doesn’t think he owes the Vast any more than he already has to give it. But her snide voice had gotten into his head and he waspishly tells her that, in fact, he is going to study astronomy _and_ oceanography. Simon later tells him not to mind Matilde, but it is too late. Jon has said what he said, and he is not going to deal with her smug look the next time he’s forced to attend a Fairchild function if he backs down. He already has to deal with half of them simpering about his “delicate sensibilities”.

He ends up in school a couple years longer than the typical four. By the time his scholarship runs out after his fourth year, he has been driven beyond caring about using Simon’s money to pay for the last couple. He’ll end up with his degree in two sciences, and a third in English just because he keeps adding classes on the topic in his schedule to keep himself sane. He bullies Simon into not saying anything about it.

He doesn’t make a lot of friends in uni. He’s simply not made for it. Trying and failing to make a friend is one of the worst feelings he can endure. Whatever “otherness” he has about him seems to put people off. Not to mention, he’s a bit reluctant to make friends, all things considered. 

Jon learns that he likes alcohol well enough ( _though not necessarily being drunk_ ), is distinctly not a fan of clubbing or partying, and picks up the habit of smoking. He gains a bit of a reputation for being able to make the most interesting of smoke rings, though he keeps the more improbable ones for when he’s alone at night.

The skies in London are too polluted to let the stars shine, but Jon remembers where they are. He brings his cigarette to his mouth, inhaling the smoke and letting it sit in his lungs. He exhales, whimsically feeling like Boreas, the north wind, and smoke clouds the sky. It twists and twirls until constellations are mapped out across the otherwise featureless black. Smokey stars for the Old Smoke.

“Wow, that’s as cool as everyone says! Can’t quite tell what it’s meant to be, though.”

Jon startles in surprise and reflexively wipes his hands through the air, erasing the impossible scene. He turns to the feminine voice, murmuring, “It was esoteric.”

The girl smiles at him, “Wouldn’t mind seeing some of your non-abstract work. I’ll trade you a nice cigar I’ve got saved up.”

Jon’s never had a cigar before. His curiosity leads him to agree. He rather likes them, although their inherent poshness puts him off a bit. He forms smoke creations through the night based on the girl’s suggestions, so long as they linger in the realm of plausibility. She already knows his name but it’s not until later Jon thinks to ask for hers.

Georgie likes researching the supernatural and punk music, and is somehow already an expert at handling Jon when he gets lost in his head. While he doesn’t dare bring up the Entities, he is happy to theorize about ghosts and more mundane monsters with her. Jon is very careful not to ask any Vast questions around her.

She teaches him how to pull his growing hair up in different styles of buns. She bemoans how his hair almost seems to defy gravity, staying effortlessly where it’s put in a way that even her thicker hair can’t mimic. Even stray strands float in a disgustingly artful way. Jon teases her that maybe if she lived with _her_ “head in the clouds” then her hair would follow suit. It’s fun. 

Georgie is the first good friend he makes. He meets more people through her, and while he likes them well enough, he can get overwhelmed when hanging out with too many people. He prefers it when it’s just them, honestly.

Well, them and the Admiral. Georgie drags Jon to a humane shelter one day and comes out cradling a little kitten purring like a motor boat. Jon finds out what it’s like to fall in love.

Which is a bit of a complicated topic, when not referencing the best cat in the world. 

Jon almost definitely develops a crush on Georgie. It’s a bit hard to tell. When he’s drunk enough to one night, he calls Mike and attempts to grill him on what it’s like to have romantic feelings for someone. 

Mike’s sigh is needlessly world-weary, “ _Jon, I don’t know why the hell you think I’m a good person to ask about this. I haven’t felt anything like that in quite a while. All I need is my lord and savior the Vast_ ,” this part is said sarcastically but drunk-Jon nods along, “ _Well… do you want to sleep with her_?”

“No!” Jon hisses, “what does that have to do with anything?”

“ _No need for that kind of reaction. Sex is perfectly normal – I guarantee you pretty much everyone around you is having it. Except, have you ever wanted to sleep with someone, Jon_?”

“No!” Jon is just as indignant, but his mood takes an immediate downturn, “is there something wrong with me? Do you have to want to sleep with someone to like them? 

“ _Oh, Christ. Or Vast. Or- whatever. No. No tears. Definitely do not cry. Uh, there’s nothing wrong with not wanting to have sex. It’s a thing most people do, but I guess not everyone. Damn. Why did you ask_ me _about this? Just. I guess if you want to spend time around someone and your heart beats faster (is that a sex thing? Shit.) or, I don’t know, you think about them all the time, then maybe you have a crush. Don’t call me about this again._ ”

Mike hangs up to Jon still crying. When he sobers up, he will ask the Vast to take him away from this wretched world. It, of course, does nothing that could possibly be construed as helpful. Despite both of them, Mike’s words are actually somewhat useful. 

Jon figures out he doesn’t have any real interest in having sex. He doesn’t know if he hates it or anything, but there’s nothing in him that particularly wants it. He blurts these thoughts out to Georgie one day, because of course he does, and she casually tells him he’s probably asexual. Having a name for things always makes Jon feel better. He can’t help but be equally grateful for Georgie’s nonchalance. Which does not help his almost-definitely-crush.

It weighs on his mind constantly for a while. When he pays attention, he thinks Georgie might even be open to dating, although it’s hard for him to discern friendly versus more-than-friendly actions. She pulls him along one morning between classes, her arm hooked into his. She smiles at him and he smiles back. There’s something warm between them.

Only, Jon’s life isn’t something to recklessly bring people into. It will never not be complicated or dangerous on some level. Jon can’t even tell Georgie he’s not entirely human. While he’s willing to be friends with her, he thinks trying to have a romantic relationship is a step too far. It wouldn’t be fair.

One day Georgie makes what he can actually tell is a move. He brushes her off as gently as he knows how to, not completely apologetic because she’s not someone who likes pity, but as kind as he can. 

Georgie accepts it for what it is and they settle back into comfortable friendship for the rest of uni. She talks about her dates and Jon ruthlessly tears them apart while still being encouraging of her. He has no clue how to talk about sex, but will awkwardly ask her if she had a good time when she breezes back into her apartment, Jon having stayed over to spend time with the Admiral. Georgie laughs and will complain a bit if her partner was particularly selfish or displeasing, but is careful not to make Jon uncomfortable.

Unsurprisingly, Jon’s crush doesn’t fade for a while. He’s a bit bitter that he can’t let himself at least try to have something more with Georgie, but he’s just as happy to have a friend. Especially when she guides him through his periodic breakdowns during midterms and finals weeks. Even when she tells him he could always drop a degree and that he’s torturing himself with his own pride. She’s right, but she doesn’t have to say it.

* * *

On one summer break between years in college, Simon cajoles Jon into taking a trip with him. He ends up taking them to Bolivia. It’s beautiful, of course, but Jon isn’t quite sure why Simon’s taken him there until they reach their final destination.

Tucked within the Andes mountains is Salar de Uyuni. Simon has taken them during the time of year when nearby lakes overflow and create a thin layer of water over the salt flat. The effect is breathtaking.

Jon almost stumbles when he gets out of the car, unable to take his eyes off of the perfect mirror of the sky. There is no one else besides them, no one to take away from the sky both above and below. It’s mind-bending to look at, in its way. 

Simon is saying something jovially, but Jon couldn’t pay attention to him if he wanted to. He stays there looking until the clouds dotting the sky turn to stars. There are tears in his eyes, maybe. 

While Jon loves the sea, it is the sort of bittersweet love of a lonely childhood spent escaping to it. He’s still only able to admire its surface; never deeper. A book with a hungry spider inked into its front is always sinking, incredible malice aimed eternally at Jon and his small, shaking hands.

The thin layer of salty water is reminiscent of what he can still wholeheartedly love about the ocean. He doesn’t sink into the water nor send ripples out as he steps onto it. It remains an unbroken reflection. Ink black with a galaxy full of heavenly bodies sprawled out endlessly across it.

He doesn’t know how long he walks towards the horizon line between the sky above and sky below. He doesn’t reach it, of course. It’s impossible. Jon would be truly disappointed if he ever did.

Simon’s waiting for him when he gets back. It’s the morning. The water is now painted in fiery oranges and peachy pinks. He’s lounging in their rented jeep, top down and feet up. He is sipping on something he certainly didn’t have before and raises his glass as Jon appears from the horizon. He’s beaming, and for once Jon is sure it’s completely genuine.

As the old man likely predicted, Salar de Uyuni becomes Jon’s Domain. 

( _He can’t explain to Georgie what exactly happened, but he wants to share this with her so desperately. The picture hardly encompasses the beauty of Salar de Uyuni and what it means to him, but she frames it and always has it hanging in the main room of whatever apartment she’s living in_.)

* * *

The Fairchilds collectively decide a celebration is in order since Jon finally obtained a Domain. Apparently, most Vast avatars pick one up fairly soon after coming into their powers, if not immediately. Jon does not get a say in the matter.

So, Jon is stuffed into clothes Harriet picks out for him and shuttled off to a mansion that the Fairchilds apparently have for hosting parties. Disgusting.

The frivolous display of wealth, not the clothes. Jon has to admit that the clothes are objectively quite beautiful. 

The suit is a blended weave which results is a silky black that absorbs yet does not reflect any light. Silver thread is stitched meticulously throughout it, creating an abstract array of constellations. The collared undershirt is a dove grey and his shoes a patent black. The silver strands that have begun to covertly streak his hair seem highlighted with the outfit. His glasses have been summarily confiscated, so it seems he’ll just have to deal with not being able to see clearly after so many feet in front of him.

The thought of how expensive the suit must be makes Jon want to not even look at the dark wines or hors d'oeuvres that could possibly stain it.

Jon is holding a champagne glass carefully in one hand and attempting to blend into the scenery. Simon’s already introduced him to the patriarch of the Lukas family. He is a nicely dressed man with empty eyes who almost seems to sap the warmth from the air around him. Even as Jon shakes his hand it feels like he’s looking at Nathaniel Lukas from another room. Talking to him feels like every time Jon’s been in a conversation with someone he knows he’s lost the interest of minutes before and wouldn’t even notice if Jon’s words trailed off into silence.

It is, unsurprisingly, an encounter that strikes him with a deep sense of loneliness.

It strains the limits of Jon’s social grace to simply stand there as Simon and Nathaniel talk. He wants to be basically anywhere but there, but also doesn’t want to embarrass Simon. Not that it’s probably possible for Simon to feel any emotion approaching shame. Still, Jon feels like he owes it to Simon to not storm off in the middle of speaking to an important business associate. 

It’s not until Mike, who must have also been dragged to this sham of a party, ambles up and both older men turn their attention to him that Jon feels like he can discretely slip away. Mike sends him a blank look as he skitters backwards, but Jon refuses to feel bad for the abandonment. It was Mike’s poor decision to approach in the first place.

Jon has relocated to a side of the enormous ballroom partially obscured by large potted plants. The room is lined with arching windows characteristic of buildings owned by Vast-aligned. Jon looks longingly out the window to the stars. All these people have nominally gathered here to celebrate Jon gaining a domain; surely, they couldn’t be insulted if he slipped into it. Unfortunately, before he can put this impulse into action, unwelcomed visitors descend upon him like carrion birds onto a fresh corpse.

Jon’s dislike of Peter Lukas is born almost instantly upon meeting him. 

“Trying to escape the crowd? Awfully rude for the man of the hour to try and skip out on his own party. Not that I can blame you; it’s awfully unpleasant to have everyone’s eyes focused on you, isn’t it?” a deep voice amiably says.

The friendliness of the voice is so plastic Jon’s hackles immediately raise. Simon’s joviality is mixed with a deep-seated nihilism that makes it so that Simon doesn’t view life seriously enough to often bother with negative emotions. His apparent friendliness doesn’t stem from the same emotions as most people, but it’s still not a lie.

The charisma of this voice is a thin covering over aching nothingness. Like an echo in a cave; a stolen expression of warmth bouncing around the walls and turning into an ever-fainter facsimile of the original. Meeting the man’s eyes, Jon is wholly unsurprised to see his resemblance to Nathaniel Lukas. 

Somehow, this Lukas is more off-putting for his façade of warmth. In addition to being inexplicably annoying. The smile within his white beard is equally empty, except for a mocking tilt. Jon’s glare turns poisonous incredibly quickly. Georgie may even say it’s a record, if she were here.

“That’s hardly necessary, Peter. There’s no need to get under young Jonathan’s skin, or to take digs at my patron,” a carefully measured and cajoling voice returns.

The man next to the Lukas is much smaller. More accurately, he’s a more reasonable size next to the Lukas’ bulk. His appearance is carefully put together. Everything about him is well-tailored, yet bland in that certain way bureaucrats can have. His eyes are surprisingly bright and intent for the rest of his body.

The man extends his hand and Jon reflexively takes it, “I am Elias Bouchard. My companion is Peter Lukas. It is lovely to meet you, Jonathan. I have known quite a bit about you before now. It is nice to see you in person.”

Creep. 

Jon knows about the Magnus Institute. It’s a bit infamous even in normal society, though more as a laughingstock. As a major investor of the institute, Simon’s told him about it from the non-human perspective. Jon can’t help be interested in it. As a temple to the Eye and for its function as an Archive of humanity’s encounters with aspects of the Entities. It would be incredibly enlightening to take a look at all the information contained within. It’d certainly help with Jon’s personal research into the fears.

Perhaps if Jon liked one thing about Elias or his companion, he’d be tempted to ask for permission to take a look around. If nothing else, meeting an Eye avatar is interesting. The Lonely practically seeps off of the Lukases. The Eye’s influence is much subtler. Jon doubts he’d be able to pick one of its avatars out of a crowd. The eyes are stereotypically the most notable thing about Elias, Jon’s eyes are honestly more notable. Going by what he’s heard of the Archivist, perhaps you only know for sure once they want to get some information out of you.

Jon pulls his hand back when Elias shows no interest in being the first to let go, “I prefer to go by Jon.”

“Of course. Congratulations are in order for gaining your Vast domain.”

“It seems to have taken quite a while, if the rumors of you being in contact with your god since you were a child are true. Lukases enter the Lonely when they’re still children,” Peter cuts in.

“Well, I suppose I didn’t grow up in a fear-cult to help me along.”

“You’re in one now. Although, you don’t seem especially close to your fellows, do you?”

“That’s enough Peter,” Elias puts a hand on the larger man’s arm and his smile could cut like a knife, “why don’t you make yourself useful and get me some wine.”

Peter clutches at his heart, “your cruel words wound me, dearest.” But he obligingly makes his way towards a refreshment table.

Elias turns back to Jon, but his smile retains an underlying predatory edge that makes Jon incredibly uncomfortable, “I have to say, Jon, I am curious about some of the things that I’ve heard.”

“Have I become hot gossip amongst the avatar elite?”

“Oh, there’s some of that, I suppose. You know of my institute, correct? Then you know that the purpose of our Archives is to collect the statements of those who have encountered the supernatural. Well, those that survive their encounters with the supernatural. You leave quite a few of those behind, Jon. Their experiences have caught my eye. I have never heard of an avatar of the Vast with powers quite like yours.” The intensity of his eyes has only grown, and Jon can’t seem to break eye contact.

“Yes. That’s, uh, been said to me before.”

“It is a shame you have been claimed by the Vast. You would make a most excellent pupil of the Eye.”

Something in Jon rebels, a possessive burn igniting in him. His mouth can’t seem to form a properly acerbic retort, though. Elias is still looking at him, looking into him. Is he closer? Jon can’t tell. His mind is filled with the white noise of all the questions and curiosity he’s ever harbored; the limitless well of knowledge that exists in the universe that he will never be able to find the bottom of. That he will never be able to even drink even a fraction of. At least, as he is now. There are ways that knowledge could be made more readily available to him, if he only accepts them.

Jon is suddenly jolted back to himself when a boney hand jostles his shoulder, “Ah, Jon! You’ve met Elias then?”

He dazedly looks down at Simon’s face. He’s smiling at Elias. His expression isn’t entirely friendly.

Elias seems to fold back into himself, despite doing nothing more than blinking and running a hand over his suit jacket, “Simon. It’s a pleasure to see you again. How are your enterprises going?”

The two men begin to talk shop as Jon reorients himself. He’s not entirely certain what just happened. Or what Elias is aiming for. Jon’s Becoming was a slow, meandering thing rather than the dramatic metamorphosis many avatars experience, but he is certainly an avatar of the Vast. He can hardly change patrons at this point. Right?

Jon comforts himself with Simon’s presence next to him. Elias doesn’t look away from the old man, but Jon can’t help but feel like his eyes are still on Jon. That he knows what Jon’s thinking and he finds him amusing.

A tension Jon doesn’t completely realize is there is cut when Peter ambles back over to them. He acknowledges the newcomer with a jolly “Simon!” before handing Elias a glass. He takes his place next to the other man. Something about him seems anticipatory. Elias absentmindedly takes the drink and begins to raise the glass to his mouth. His hand abruptly stops.

Elias’ bland smile freezes, “You know I hate this type of wine.”

“Do I?”

“I should have gotten rid of you years ago.”

“What’s stopping you?” The emotion in Peter’s taunting smile looks real for the first time.

Elias’ eyes crawl away from Peter to look apologetically at Simon and Jon, “I’m afraid I have matters to discuss with my companion. It was lovely meeting you, Jon. I hope to see more of you in the future. If you’ll excuse us.”

He turns and walks imperiously away. Peter follows closely at his heels, shit-eating grin still in place. His empty eyes glance back for a moment and he sends Jon a little wave. Jon clenches his hand around his champagne glass ( _vaguely happy he hadn’t dropped it at some point_ ) to avoid sending back a certain gesture.

Simon hums in amusement, “Don’t mind Peter and Elias; they’re between divorces at the moment.”

“What,” Jon doesn’t bother hiding his disdain.

“I’ll have to ensure the maids deep-clean the rooms. Those two have no self-restraint. Ah, to be young.”

“ _What_.”

“That Elias is bold, though. Spends a couple centuries with his god and suddenly he can get away with anything if he hedges his bets. Perhaps I should disabuse him of that notion,” he glances at Jon’s confused face and shakes his head as if to dispel his earlier musings, “Besides that, you’ve done quite well, Jonny! Lasted longer than I expected you to. I wouldn’t be overly upset if you decided to gracefully make your leave. Take Mike with you, though. I’ve seen more than one person suddenly waver while going up the steps. Oh, there’s one more! My, that one seemed a bit personal.”

Jon allows Simon’s praise to evaporate the last of his disorientation before tucking the warm feeling away. He wastes no time in ducking out, only pausing to quickly locate Mike. They’re approaching the door when a woman looks like she means to intercept them.

Jon panics and pulls them both into his domain. He hasn’t had his domain long enough to figure out if he can travel to locations other than the one he entered it in. Neither want to risk going back to the party. They decide to try and wait it out in Jon’s pocket dimension.

Mike sighs, “Well, at least it’s pretty.”

Jon takes out the cigarette and lighter he had snuck into his suit pocket. He entertains them by making increasingly elaborate smoke designs. Mike seems to be mildly impressed by Jon’s skill and takes a stab at it himself. He’s not quite as good as Jon, but not bad. 

It’s a relaxing experience. One that they will repeat periodically in the future.

By the time they step back into the real world, the party is long over. The lights are off and no one is in the ballroom. Jon thinks he might faintly hear something in the distance, but he has no interest in finding out if he’s right. Considering Simon’s earlier words, his mind is already creating a multitude of horrifying scenarios.

Mike gives Jon a ride back to Oxford. They both make a pact to never attend one of Simon’s parties again.

* * *

Georgie finds out Jon’s not human on an otherwise ordinary day.

They get dinner at their favorite Indian food place and sit on the roof of Georgie’s apartment. The Admiral is with them, lazing in the day’s last rays of sun. 

“You know, I think your one astronomy professor is scared of you.”

“Which one?”

“Oh, you know the one. He looks like he’d have a heart attack if a brown person sneezed at him. Unfortunately for him, he’s got a brown person in his class _and_ they dress like a punk. However will he survive?”

“It’s _your_ fault I dress like this.”

“I know,” she says, proud.

“And it’s not like he’ll have to deal with me for much longer. Graduation is only a couple months away.”

“You’ll finally be joining us in the working world! It’s only, what, two years late?”

“Bold words from someone who’s starting a podcast.”

Georgie laughs, “I’ll have you know that a podcast is a perfectly respectable job. Better than having shady ties with vague yet powerful corporations.”

Jon opens his mouth to shoot back a reply, but is stopped by Georgie’s face twisting into panic. She stumbles up and holds out her hand, “Admiral, no!”

Jon follows her eyes and sees the Admiral hunting a bird sitting at the edge of the rooftop. He scrambles up, throat tight in fear. His heart drops as the bird flies off and the Admiral jumps after it.

Air is whooshing past him before he can think as he jumps off the roof after the cat.

Georgie’s face isn’t scared, but there are tears flowing from her eyes when she looks down from the roof. Below, Jon is standing with the Admiral safely in arms. He looks like a deer in headlights as he reluctantly waves a hand.

She’s out of breath when she reaches the sidewalk. Jon appears frozen. Only his hand moves soothingly down the Admiral’s back, the cat purring loudly in return.

“There’s no way you could have caught him in time. There’s also no way you can be completely uninjured from that fall.”

“You’re, you’re right. I have something to tell you.”

Night has fully fallen before Jon finishes his tale. Georgie sits close to him the whole time, one hand thumbing the pulse on his wrist, and the other cuddling the Admiral. 

When Jon finishes, Georgie tells him about her first year at Oxford. About Alex, the corpse in the Medical Sciences Building, and losing her fear along with a year of her life.

They’re quiet for a while, leaning against each other and just breathing. Eventually, Georgie sits up and separates herself from him. Jon’s breath catches in his throat.

She speaks slowly and not unkindly, “Jon, I love you, prickly as you are. You’re a great friend when you get yourself out of your head. But, I’m not sure I want anything in my life similar to what I encountered that day. I’m sorry. Maybe we can talk on the phone? I need to think about it.”

Jon says he understands and leaves. He never calls.

Georgie does, sometimes. And Jon inevitably always picks up, because despite how it hurts, even a thin connection to humanity and his only friend is better than none. The first conversations are stilted and awkward, constantly dancing around a topic they never had trouble avoiding before. Pictures of the Admiral and heart emojis are their most frequent communication.

But over the years the intermittent phone calls will become smoother. They’ll never go back to what they were, but time and distance allow Georgie to feel safe talking to Jon. When he gets up the nerve, he will eventually tell Georgie that sometimes the Entities will come back to someone marked even years after the initial contact. He demands she promise to call him if anything starts to happen.

She says, “There’s no one with unexplainable eldritch powers I’d rather have come save me from the fear god of Death.”

Despite his scoffing response, he’s happy.

That’s later.

For now, something in Jon bleeds. He walks away from his first friend, the person he has felt the closest to in his entire life, knowing there’s nothing he could have done to save their friendship.

The Vast looked into Jon when he was only a child. He was caught before he lost his first tooth. He likes to think that there could have been some way for him to know something was wrong. Perhaps he could have stopped visiting the sea and never turned his eyes to the sky again. Never strained his mind to understand concepts that can twist humans into knots.

Maybe there is a child out there who would have been able to do it, but Jon isn’t them. The Vast is with him as he grows up and into himself. They’re so tightly intertwined that Jon doesn’t quite know who he is without it. Where the Vast begins and he ends.

Well, that’s not quite true. Jon knows his resistance to killing people to feed his god is all him. A clear manifestation of his humanity. But it isn’t enough. It wasn’t enough for Georgie to see him as human. As someone that wouldn’t hurt her. 

He isn’t human, really. He’s been unknowingly walking away from his humanity for almost as long as he’s been alive. He doesn’t blame Georgie for her choice; he’s even happy that her lack of fear hasn’t made her reckless with her life, in a distant part of himself.

Jon just wishes that his choices could make a difference. That his seemingly futile fight against his nature doesn’t just end with him hurt.

It’s a useless thought. Jon has always known his pain is less valuable than others. 

Jon stays in his Domain for days or weeks. A dock exists for him to perch on, his bare feet skimming the thin veil of water coating the salty ground. He looks into the infinite expanse of space and stars and the almost unnoticeable horizon line and does not think. His tears float in orbit around him. A bobbing trail of small airy diamonds attracted to a dense ball of misery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this what we call angst?
> 
> s5 is clearly influencing Vast!Jon's powers in this chapter; I make no apologies. I did the avatar aura thing because it's fun. Jon still pokes his nose into things better left alone, Archivist or no Archivist. 
> 
> I have no clue how Oxford works/what majors they offer/how college works in England generally, but I didn't have the energy to research it. Hopefully discrepancies aren't too annoying for people who do know.


	4. Red Giant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got a Vast episode this week! I loved it, but it makes me even more certain that I'm not doing Simon justice. Nothing for it now.
> 
> I feel like some of the scenes in this chapter would land better if they were placed further apart, but I'm trying to end this story in a couple chapters so they're pushed together here.
> 
> I'm gonna reference a couple fics in the end notes that gave me inspiration for something in this chapter, so don't read it if you aren't reasonably far into "Reverb in These Holy Halls" and "we raise it up" if you don't want to risk possible spoilers.
> 
> This chapter goes out to everyone who signed the "Let Jon Have Friends" petition. Hope you enjoy!

The first time Jon traps someone in his Domain, it isn’t a human.

Jon has been listless. He managed to make it through graduation and dodge a celebration party afterwards, but his life has felt shaded in tones of grey the entire time. Georgie had texted him a brief _congratulations_ with a picture of the Admiral. Jon saved the picture and only cried for a few dozen minutes looking at the Admiral’s perfect face. He replies with a perfunctory _thanks_. She hasn’t texted him yet since.

Simon is tired of Jon’s “moping” within a few months after graduation. He doesn’t understand why Jon’s so upset about losing his friend. Relationships are ephemeral; even life is often hardier than them. The feelings people have for each other can change with the blowing wind. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying someone – interesting people can spice up life after all – but there’s really no point in getting attached. Everyone is simply background noise on a stage much grander than the world.

Which depresses Jon even more. Not so much being insignificant, because he’s never had aspirations of grandiosity, but the implication that Jon is likely insignificant to Simon. Does anyone truly care for him? He sees his grandmother about once a year, but he knows she could do just as well without. They’ve both always been independent to the point that they often forget what it means to be a family. That seems to be the fate of all of the “family” Jon will ever have.

It hits him deeply sometimes, that he’s alone.

But then he accidently passes by Peter Lukas when he’s visiting Fairchild Inc., and the man _smiles_ at him.

And Jon remembers that while he’s often alone, he’s not often lonely. While he can admit he may have a _bit_ of an issue with self-loathing, he is usually content to be with his thoughts and some books. There’s always something to think about. Besides that, there is always the sky, and the sea to a lesser extent. His domain is his favorite place in existence.

So, Jon spitefully pushes away his feelings of loneliness. A sense of direction does not magically appear, however. He had plans, but they are all ones he made with Georgie’s feedback, and he can’t bear to even think about them.

When it’s clear that Jon can only pull himself so far out of his funk, Simon kidnaps him on a trip. It’s to Barcelona, so it’s at least not that far. The beaches are also quite nice there. Jon tends to prefer trips outside of cities, since air and light pollution tend to congest the night sky, but he doesn’t have the energy to care at the moment. 

It’s a combination of ennui and a desperation to break out of it that leads Jon to search for avatars. He’s met some who are associates of either Simon or Mike on and off throughout the years. Some are better than others, although few approach something Jon would consider likable. However, there are still quite a few types of avatars Jon has yet to meet. He still wants to get a taste of whatever auras they may have, and see if he can’t gain further insight into the Dread Powers.

It’s a cloudless day and the temperature is mild. Tourists and locals alike spill across the streets. Jon isn’t a huge fan of crowds and does his best to divert to less populous areas. He ends up in some side streets of the Gothic Quarter. The streets are fairly narrow. The walls lining them reach up towards the sky, allowing only narrow strips of blue to be seen. Many of the buildings are a light tan stone. Windows are lined with vibrant green plants and flower boxes.

Jon allows the murmur of Catalan and Spanish to wash over him as he passes the odd group. He has gotten better at ignoring the fears that jump out at him, letting the bright flavors pass through him like sand falling though his fingers. He focuses instead on attempting to locate what he’s looking for. 

There’s no art or science to finding avatars. There are places you’re more likely to find them, of course: The Buried underground, the Hunt within the police, the Flesh in butchers or slaughterhouses, and the Corrupted in various politicians. However, unless you’re a Hunter, or perhaps part of the Eye, there’s no way to track them with no preexisting leads.

This means that Jon is just wandering about aimlessly and hoping that he gets lucky. Betting on his luck is not necessarily the best of choices, but it’s what he’s got at the moment. Honestly, there are higher odds of running into an avatar than most unaligned humans would be comfortable with.

As it turns out, Jon’s luck does net him results. Only, it’s bad luck in running into an avatar of the Slaughter.

The man bleeds red. The Hunt and the Flesh share similarities with this, but where the killing edge is an aspect to their whole, it is the centrality of the Slaughter. His feet move to a discordant tune that Jon can’t place, but evokes the images of war and men dying for a cause that is not the one they were sold. 

Music is an interesting component of the Slaughter. The Stranger can use it too, but it is the Slaughter who utilizes it consistently. It’s unnerving. Jon thinks of the act of making music as one of creation, of expressing humanity. Considering this is the Entity who focuses the most on the killing of humans ( _as the Desolation is the destruction of all things generally_ ), it seems simply _wrong_ that it would weaponize one of humanity’s greatest gifts. But, that’s likely the point, he supposes.

The Slaughter avatar takes in Jon’s appearance. He grins.

Violence simply does not appeal to Jon. Perhaps it’s unsurprising the he and its avatar wouldn’t get along.

Jon’s running before his mind consciously tells his legs to. It’s bad form to run from predators, but that’s more the Hunt’s thing. Running from a Hunter is begging for them to hunt you. The Slaughter is either going to kill you or it won’t; running doesn’t really matter. It’ll choose to kill you more often than not.

Jon sprints down the near-deserted streets, cursing himself for picking such a narrow part of the city. He hears the man chasing him and is at least glad he doesn’t seem interested in any of the people they pass.

He bursts out into a square just as the man catches up to him and slashes him on the back. Jon could feel the wind moving past the knife and manages to angle himself so that the cut is shallow. It still stings fiercely. He awkwardly rolls further into the open space and springs up so that he’s backing away from the steadily approaching man.

The few people who are in the square shriek and dissipate into the side streets. While it would have theoretically been nice for someone to interfere, it’s probably for the best they don’t. Jon has to handle this on his own.

Which is easier said than done, considering Jon’s hardly a fighting machine. He does his best to dodge away from the giggling man’s slices. He gains a littering of shallow cuts across his torso, blood staining the light blue of his shirt. He’s fairly certain the other avatar is playing with him. More concerningly, he’s afraid he may be aiming for death by a thousand cuts.

Jon trips on one of the cobblestones and falls onto his back. He tries to scramble up, but the man is already looming over him. His knife glints in the sunlight, dyed a light red from much more than just Jon’s blood.

The immediacy of his death steals over him as calloused hands readjust their grip. A booted foot takes a step forward. Then, the gleaming of the knife dies. A pause.

Light cuts out around them, shadows cascading across the ground. They reflexively look up, minds already primed to see clouds.

Only, it’s not a cloud. It’s impossible to tell what it is. It’s enormous. A black shape reaching across the sky and blotting out the sun. Jon’s brain desperately tries to make sense of it. The more he looks, the more he understands, and the more horror begins to accumulate in his gut in a steady drip.

There’s nothing in particular to make him think it, but he suddenly believes that the great shadow is a limb. It’s a ridiculous thought; something with a limb that size is beyond colossal. Jon’s mind-eye conjures up the image of a shadowed figure curling around the earth. Knees press into the ocean and erupt tsunamis that swallow half the globe in their wake. Various other limbs are reaching over over _over_ the curvature of the earth to flatten the infinitesimal lives that exist upon it. It might not even know they’re there, small as they are.

Even the Slaughter’s bloodlust can’t stop its avatar from faltering in his steps. There’s a tremor in his legs and wrist as his wide eyes take in the amorphous limb blocking the sun. He gasps in silent despair that there is no action he could take that could even begin to hurt a being that exists on an entirely different scale. It’s just. _So_. _Much_. _Bigger_. He is nothing before it.

Jon is not much better off. His arms are shaking so hard he nearly falls back down when he pushes himself up. But he is an avatar of the Vast. Perhaps this is not an aspect he is particularly connected to, but he has long accepted the enormity of a universe he must not even register in. Additionally, in the shaded outline of the city, he recognizes a familiar silhouette.

He climbs to his knees, calf muscles tense, then tackles the avatar with his arms wrapping around its middle. They land in another dimension.

Jon feels his hands be smashed between the solid muscles of the man’s back and the wood of his dock. It doesn’t hurt, though, because his domain can’t hurt him. Or, his body could be distracted by the cuts that litter him. Their bleeding hasn’t slowed despite the fact that they shouldn’t have been deep enough to weep for more than a few minutes.

Jon is ripped off the body under him with a snarl. He’s thrown across the dock, body spinning, and thinks he may gain a mild form of whiplash. Hair is finally ripped free from its constraining bun and gently falls to curtain his face. His body is rejuvenated with a shot of energy from entering his domain, so he’s able to quickly regain his feet.

The Slaughter avatar is slower, but his fury pumps wild adrenaline through his limbs. His eyes are the smoldering of a bombed-out city as he makes a leap for Jon.

He stabs deeply into Jon’s shoulder. The pain resounds in Jon’s fingertips and zings into his brain. His pain receptors are so overwhelmed he thinks he may taste something sweet. Jon uses his previous burst of energy to push the man to the side – him pulling the knife out of Jon’s shoulder with a vicious wrench – and off the nearby edge of wood.

The man’s face is twisted in a rictus of victory as he falls and lands lithely off of the dock. 

He turns around and it’s no longer there.

Jon watches as the avatar whips his head around in search. He bellows in rage and begins to stomp. His boots splash in the thin veil of water. No ripples emit from his points of entry. The image of the stars remains unbothered, broken only where his feet stand. Even then, a gaseous galaxy seems to bend around him rather than pass through. His is a single ( _momentary_ ) blight on the starscape. 

If the man were a part of the Hunt, perhaps Jon would have to worry about him managing to find Jon where his is/isn’t. But even as he slices through the air where he was certain the dock had been, nothing tangible meets the edge of the blade.

Howls of fury unsatiated echo around the endless salt flat as Jon returns to the primary world. Jon could find the avatar again if he wanted to, but he doubts he’ll feel an urge to seek him out. It is highly unlikely they will ever cross paths again in a world of infinite horizons. When the man’s patron revokes its favor with nothing for its avatar to sacrifice, anything remaining will sink into the stars. Jon wonders if he may be able to spot a new constellation soon.

When he steps out of his domain, Simon only idly comments one thing before he takes Jon to get his steadily bleeding shoulder looked at.

“Not quite sure why you tackled the Slaughter avatar like a rugby player instead of just pushing him into your domain, but I suppose it still got the job done!”

It’s hardly his proudest moment, but color begins to bleed back into the edges of his life. He hopes it wasn’t being stabbed that broke him of his melancholy, since that’s probably a bad sign, but he’s grateful nonetheless that he’s able to do more than stare blankly through whatever’s in front of him. 

He thinks Mike may seem at least somewhat happy that Jon’s focus has been re-centered, but he’s moreso summarily unimpressed. If him periodically prodding Jon’s shoulder throughout the excruciatingly slow healing process is anything to go by.

Life goes on.

* * *

Jon gets roped into helping out with Vast avatars’ enterprises every so often. It turns out getting that double degree is coming back to bite him in the ass, as they’re rather relevant areas to many of the people he knows.

Simon in particular eggs Jon into taking an interest in his space program, Pinnacle Aerospace. Jon helpfully points out that he does _not_ have a degree in rocket science or astrophysics, which would be actually helpful in launching a space station. Simon waves him off and says Jon is the perfect man for the job.

Jon finds out that the Daedalus is a joint project with a company called Stratosphere Group. More relevantly, Simon is working with the Dark in sending one of the members of the People’s Church of the Divine Host up there along with an astronaut to test human reactions to isolation in space. Which means the Lukases are also involved in the funding, unfortunately.

Jon’s never met one of the members of the Maxwell Ranier’s church, but they sound fairly creepy. Jon only meets Manuela Dominguez twice, mostly to get a read on what the Dark-aligned feel like. It’s not a completely unpleasant feeling, at least for Jon. The dark is not something that scares him. He’s most energized at night. However, there is a disconnect between the absolute darkness that clings to the Dark avatar, versus the essential dewdrops of light that glow in Jon’s eyes. That’s not even mentioning Manuela herself.

She’s incredibly dismissive of Jon, and Vast-aligned ambitions generally. Jon doesn’t even care about whatever schemes the various avatars are concocting, yet he can’t help but feel insulted. He’s happy not to have work with her again, even if the dark sun he briefly heard her mumbling about does sound incredibly interesting.

The astronaut Simon picks out, Jan Kilbride, is briefly a source of contention between then. The old man is quick to point out that the man knowingly signed up for an isolation experiment and that he had dreamed all his life of going to the stars. Even if he doesn’t know what he’s going into, exactly, he technically agreed to it. In any case, it’s not as if Simon doesn’t plan on bringing him back to earth.

Jon knows he ought to argue more, but he’s learned over the years to try and pick his battles with Simon. Simon is going to send someone up there, whether Jon approves of it or not. At least Jan Kilbride has trained for it.

( _and something in him says that it is a blessing to send someone to the stars, into the vast expanse of space. How could he deny someone that?_ )

More importantly, Simon has complained that while space will likely be the focal point for the Vast’s next ritual, it won’t be possible for quite a while. Jon doesn’t want to think of the implications of a successful ritual, even if something in him yearns for it. It hopefully won’t be a problem in his lifetime. Simon purposefully sought out longevity of life, and while some avatars naturally gain it, that won’t be something the Vast would gift Jon… probably.

Definitely. He’s hardly its most ardent of follower.

So, Jon spends a good amount of time working on a project he is entirely unqualified for, for the most part. He is able to aid in anything concerning the geography of space and the heavenly bodies that move in it. Once he even predicts the location of an asteroid that may interfere with the Daedalus’ orbit – much more intuitively than he should be able to. It’s only Simon’s laughing orders to take Jon’s more soothsaying prediction than scientific calculation seriously that gets the ( _actually qualified_ ) scientists to take it into account. He’ll have more than one coming to him in amazement when his predication comes true only a few days before launch. It’s incredibly uncomfortable.

He is proud to say that he only causes a couple breakdowns when he accidently goes off on tangents about theories of the depth of space, numbers of galaxies across the universe, and the time it would take to make it to the outer-limits of ever-expanding existence. Simon gives them more than decent severance pays to stave off Jon’s guilt, though he doesn’t bother to hide how funny he finds it.

After the Daedalus launches, and eventually returns (with an alive but very bad off Jan), Jon still works at Pinnacle Aerospace periodically. Although the projects now have a longer-term bent. He finds that he is incredibly ( _supernaturally_ ) intuitive about matters involving space, particularly stars. The scientists there begin to treat him as a respected colleague over the years, despite the fact that one really needs a PhD in astronomy to be an authority in the field. They find him insightful, full of mind-bending theories and hypothesis. It’s a nice feeling. He can’t fully enjoy it, considering where his “insight” comes from, but nice. Jon likes being well-regarded. Once in a while he even fools himself into thinking they like him personally.

The other Fairchild ventures he is strong-armed into helping with are often more thankless. He is not necessarily thought highly of by the Fairchild Vast avatars thanks to his, quote unquote, eating habits. On top of that, he is still the “youngest” of them as the newest to Become, and they enjoy teasing him. Not to say that Jon isn’t perfectly capable of ripping into one of his “family members” if they push his temper too far, but he’s sure Mike never had to deal with this.

He works mostly with those who have ocean-based ventures, although Harriet will insist on taking him skydiving every so often. He neglects to mention how much he enjoys it, but her knowing smile doesn’t leave much illusion of his success. 

Dealing with the logistics of shipping and matters involving the movement of the ocean actually turns out to be fairly enjoyable. Jon has a very precise eye and can pour over data for hours until he’s satisfied. While he doesn’t have the strongest bond with the ocean of the Vast avatars, it is still a pleasant topic to work with. It leaves him a bit wistful for what might have been.

He ends up cultivating a decent rapport with Bernard Fairchild as they scheme at outmaneuvering and overtaking the Lukases in their shipping empire. Jon is often a bit too rash in his decision making, but Bernard appreciates his enthusiasm. Simon chides them for stirring up trouble with their allies and cites how put out Peter will be, but noticeably does nothing to stop them.

Jon isn’t close with the Fairchilds, or anything, but some of them aren’t entirely awful to work with.

* * *

It’s a crisp autumn day, the wind cold enough that Jon has a scarf wrapped around his neck in addition to his coat. The coat is designer, because Harriet keeps somehow stealing any of the ones she deems makes him look like “a poor librarian who thinks the Gap is the height of fashion”. The scarf is one Georgie made him years ago, lumpy and with clashing colors. The others are perfectly aware he will leave them in a loop of contemplating the ever-expanding breadth of space if they so much as breathe on it.

Jon is spending the day tracking down a Leitner. It’s not a pastime he indulges in over much, but he still has a certain hatred for the books from the Library of Jurgen Leitner after all these years. Mike had made the mistake of mentioning his past experiences with them, and Jon had grilled him until Mike had made him nearly fall to his knees in vertigo. As Jon is also Vast-aligned and stronger than he was as a teenager, this did not deter him for long.

The Leitner belongs to the Buried. Rumors of random pitfalls and sinkholes suddenly appearing around Stratford with at least one victim within them are a fairly good indication of the Entity’s influence. Some thought a new avatar may have appeared in the area, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. Most have decided that it’s likely one of the books from Jurgen Leitner’s library that is the culprit.

Honestly, evil books are just so unnecessary. Why did the fear gods have to unanimously decide “You know what would be great? If Jon has to have a partial panic attack every time he goes into a second-hand book shop and finds a nicely bound book. Can’t just let him enjoy himself for once in his wretched life”. Evil books. Jon will _never_ get over it.

He walks along a sidewalk in the direction of the latest sinkhole. There have been reports of a book being found with the bodies so far. A book wasn’t found on the latest one. While it’s possible the people were carrying random books at the time of their unfortunate demise, Jon would bet it’s the Leitner he’s looking for. The latest victim hadn’t been noted to have anything but their wallet on them. Jon hopes that means that the Leitner could still be in the newest sinkhole.

The thought of climbing into the ground is enough to give him hives, so he tries to ignore that eventuality until it’s in front of him.

Jon easily ducks around the blockades and tape strung around the area. This sinkhole is large enough that it spans over most of the street and partially onto the sidewalk. Precautions have been put into place so that the unwary don’t drive into a wreck waiting to happen, but there aren’t any constables posted in the area. This means there shouldn’t be anything impeding Jon from his search.

Of course, as soon as that thought crosses his mind, Jon sees a figure standing a few feet from edge of the hole, close to one of the surviving lampposts. They’re fairly tall with long black hair. A long dark leather coat sways in the slight breeze. Their back is facing him so Jon can’t discern any details about the person. What he does notice is the book they hold in one hand, sludge appearing to drip from between its pages.

Alarm strikes Jon’s heart and he jogs the distance between him and the Leitner’s next victim, “Hey, put that down!”

The person whirls around to face Jon and he finally gets a good look at them.

The man’s face is dotted with silver piercings. One bar pierces through an eyebrow sitting above an evaluative green-blue eye. This close Jon notes that his black hair is a result of a pretty bad dye job. He is pale and lean, though Jon’s certain wiry muscles hide under his jacket. Most notably, eyes are tattooed on various parts of his body. They ripple on his knuckles as his grip tightens on the book.

Jon has heard of Gerard Keay. He’s heard of Mary Keay moreso, but Gerard’s acquisition and destruction of Letiners, and acquaintance with the Archivist, are fairly hot gossip amongst avatars. In fact, it is some of the only gossip Jon bothers to listen to. 

“Oh,” Jon says.

“Recognize me then?” Gerard asks, his smile not particularly friendly.

“You’re a fairly recognizable person, Mr. Keay.”

“Mr. Keay? What, are you a James Bond villain? Never mind. You come here looking for this?” he raises the book in Jon’s direction.

“Ah. Yes, I have.”

“Considering you belong to the Vast, I’m guessing you’re not here to add it to your collection.”

“I would _never_! All of those books should be burned! Well, except for the Desolation’s. They’d just like it.”

Gerard pauses and seems to reevaluate Jon, “Can’t say that’s something I often hear from avatars.”

“Well, you should. If I ever get my hands on Jurgen Leitner he’ll wish his evil books had gotten to him first.”

The other man barks out a laugh and his smile edges towards genuine, “You’ll have to get in line, mate.”

He takes a step towards Jon and he’s not sure if his heart is about to burst in excitement or fear. On the one hand, Gerard isn’t exactly known to play nice with avatars. On the other, it’s Gerard Keay. Here. Talking to Jon. Jon made him laugh!

Then the wind picks up around Jon, making him reflexively burrow into his scarf, and another person steps up next to him. 

Mike looks cool and perpetually wind-ruffled as usual. As if he just happened to be in the area and it wasn’t odd at all that he’s here. Jon and Gerard both stare at him in surprise. 

If Jon were able to get it through his head that other people are capable of caring about him or worrying for him, he may suspect that Mike was worried about Jon getting in over his head with a Leitner and followed him. Now he may be worried about him talking to a man known to hunt monsters. But these thoughts do not cross Jon’s mind. He instead deduces that Mike is here to see him fail so that he can laugh about it with someone else later. 

( _Jon is fully unaware of the fact that if Mike is around people, it’s more often than not Jon. God knows if Mike knows why, though. Simon relieved him of babysitting duty years ago_.)

“Mike?”

Mike’s cool eyes spare a look for Jon, but most of his attention is focused on the man across from them, “It seems someone else got to the Leitner first. If you really need to destroy one, you can find another one later.”

“You destroy a lot of Leitners?” Gerard asks, seemingly unconcerned with Mike’s sudden appearance. He doesn’t come any closer to them, though.

“Yes! Well, only a few so far, but I plan on finding more!”

Jon suddenly feels highly motivated to destroy as many Leitners as he can find.

“You do that. The world can always do with a few less of these lying about. I’ve got this one handled, though. Happy hunting.”

Gerard makes as if to walk away, but staggers. His head lolls and he clutches at the light post as if dizzy. It’s an alarming change from his previously collected demeanor. 

Jon looks accusingly at Mike, but the pale eyed man shakes his head, looking curiously at Gerard. Mike’s not the type to not own up to his own actions, so Jon switches his gaze back to the dark-haired man and cautiously moves forward. 

The man glares vaguely at Jon, but he holds up his hands saying, “That wasn’t us. Let me just get you farther away from that hole. If nothing else, you can trust that we have no interest in sacrificing someone to the Buried.”

Although incredibly reluctant, Gerard allows Jon to guide him away from the sinkhole and past the roadblocks. He sinks onto a nearby bench and holds his head in his hand, book placed at his side.

Jon hovers awkwardly nearby as the other man breathes deeply though his disorientation. Mike wanders over too, looking more curious than cautious now. Gerard eventually looks up. He seems displeased but not very surprised.

“That’s happened before,” Mike observes.

“Not exactly your business.”

“But something could be wrong,” Jon says, thinking of the multitude of ailments that could cause dizzy spells. They range from simple hunger to much direr issues.

“It’s nothing,” Gerard denies, pushing to his feet. Jon watches him intently but his legs don’t waver.

“Can’t your Archivist Know if there’s something wrong with you,” Mike asks casually.

“She’s not the type to use her powers frivolously.” His tone seems to be mimicking another person’s voice.

“That’s ridiculous,” Jon cuts in sharply, “if you’re helping her, the least she could do is ensure that you’re in good health.”

Gerard looks at him, but only shakes his head. “While it’s been trippy to have two avatars of the Vast ask after my health, I’ve got a date with an evil dirt book. You should probably hope I don’t see you around, considering who I’m usually with.”

He and Mike are left standing there as the dark-haired man disappears around the corner. 

Mike looks at Jon and sighs, “Let it go, Jon.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“It is incredibly dangerous to go snooping around the Archivist’s assistants – that one can be dangerous enough himself. There’s nothing you can do for him anyway. He’d hardly want your help in the first place.”

Jon deflates a bit at that last remark, “I suppose you’re right. Gerard Keay isn’t about to become friendly with random avatars.”

“Let’s head back. Being so close to a manifestation of the Buried makes me nauseous.”

“I can’t disagree with you there either,” Jon says dryly. He’s only a little reluctant as he leaves the area of his surprise encounter with someone he had previously only known through rumors and stories.

* * *

It’s not long after he meets Gerard that Jon runs into another person marked by a fear god. He can’t pin down exactly what entity has claimed him, which leaves few options.

The handsome black man approaches him with a look in his dark eyes Jon can’t discern. He looks like he put effort into putting himself together, but the weariness that haunts him is palpable. Sleep appears to be something that either evades him or is at the least unfulfilling. His eyes look at random spots on the street as if expecting something to be there. 

These clues would usually point to the Spiral, but whatever has set its sights on this man is distinctly not it. Jon’s not altogether thrilled when it seems like the man recognizes him.

“You’re here. That’s good. Or bad, probably.”

“Who _are_ you.”

“Antonio Blake.”

“…Alright, Antonio. Why is it that you were looking for me?”

“He’s going to die, you know.”

The non-sequitur throws Jon off. Jon has no clue who he’s talking about, and wonders if it’s some sort of vague threat.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

The man shuffles uncomfortably, “The bloke you talked to – I saw you with him on the street with the hole lined in death. The roots were spilling from his head. He works with the woman in that institute, so I’d seen him before. The roots aren’t as thick around him as her, but I think it’s almost impossible for anyone to have more than her. I warned her, but… it probably won’t do much good.” 

“Right. I don’t remember seeing anyone else there.”

“I saw you all in a dream and knew you’d be there. I was hiding there before the other one even came. I just, I just wanted to see.”

“…Right.”

Jon’s able to sort enough out of the man’s diatribe to be fairly alarmed, but he’s also still confused. Maybe he is marked by the Spiral and he’s experiencing hallucinations? Maybe he also just needs to sleep.

“If you need, I could get you some sleeping pills,” he offers.

The other man breathes what could be a laugh and runs a hand down his face, “If that made anything better, I would have sold everything I own for a lifetime supply.”

“That’s… yes, I suspect something as simple as sleeping pills wouldn’t help. It was callous of me to ask.”

Also denial on Jon’s part to think it could be the Spiral. The faint chill lingering around Antonio is a different flavor than the Lonely. It’s not as strong as it would be for a full avatar and it took him a few minutes to suss out. It’s something Jon’s never sensed before, but death is a companion all mortals know, in the shadow of their souls. 

“You believe me?” his voice seems to perk up.

“Yes. I don’t know exactly what’s happening to you, Antonio, but it’s not something that your own mind is conjuring up. It’s real. I’m afraid to say that I don’t know how to help you, though.”

“That’s – yeah. I didn’t come here expecting that. Would’ve been nice, but. Listening to you guys talk the other day, I just thought considering the weird shite you were saying, you might believe me. And you do.”

They stand in silence for a minute. Remorse stirs in Jon at the thought of this man on his way to Becoming. A somber mood is cast over them. Jon tries to think of something helpful to say. Antonio opens his mouth and Jon braces for the guilt of being unable to help him when he asks for it.

“I don’t suppose you’d want to come back to my place? I could do with not sleeping for a bit, and having a good time with a gorgeous man sounds like the best thing I could have going for me at the moment.”

...

“Are you _mocking_ me?” Jon bristles after a shocked pause.

“No?”

“Please, I’m hardly ‘gorgeous’. And people don’t just randomly proposition someone they’ve talked to for ten minutes.”

“Uh, yes they do.”

 _Yes, they do_. Georgie’s voice teasingly chimes in his mind. Right, well. Antonio is surely a handsome man, but that hardly means Jon wants to get personal with his unmentionables. Moreover, someone is hardly going to find _Jon_ attractive enough to proposition him out of nowhere. Weren’t they just talking about death visions or plant roots or something? 

“Also, proposition?” a hint of a smile curves the other man’s lips for the first time, “Are you a Victorian maiden? Going to call me a scoundrel?”

“Would you prefer a jackass?”

“When you’re saying it, maybe.”

“ _Goodbye_ , Antonio. I wish you the best of luck in your situation.”

“I’m Oliver Banks, actually. I’ll see you around.”

Antonio, or Oliver, or whoever he is, most certainly _won’t_.

He does. 

He says he can find Jon in his dreams, even if death doesn’t seem to have quite a firm grip on him yet. Jon gladly lets him know how creepy that is.

Some of the Fairchilds are fairly alarmed to find one of their own seemingly stalked by someone marked by the End. Simon offers to fly him somewhere out of the UK. Mike even manages to emote a bit, although in the end all he says is, “how did you manage to piss him off? Did you ask him to contemplate the enormity of the permanence of death?”

In return, Jon acerbically says that he can handle it. If Oliver is on his way to Becoming,

( _and, despite himself, Jon has tried to find a way to help Oliver Banks. To get him out of the grip of Death. To preserve his humanity. But he has no clue how to fight the End. No one else seems to, either. The only thing to do is avoid it. Avoid it until you can’t._ )

then Jon’s sure he’ll soon have better things to do than pop up unwelcomed in Jon’s life.

He doesn’t.

* * *

“Elias has his Archivist. Why can’t we have titles? Titles are fun,” Simon muses one day, sipping a sugary-pink martini complete with a little umbrella.

“The Archivist appears to be a position and title that has existed throughout the ages. You can’t just make up one because you want to.”

“Sure you can! Anything can be done with the right attitude, influence, and cash. I have some great ideas about what people can call me. Maybe I can even make it a requirement for future donations to the institute. I’ll have to put some thought into what will make Elias give his funniest of tight, bland yet murderous smiles. Jonny, you’re one of our more unique ones, aren’t you? You should definitely have a title.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Oh, you could be the Philosopher! Always getting people to think deep questions. Chasing after answers that may not exist, or are too big for humans to understand. Perfect, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t even study philosophy. I don’t even like philosophy.”

“Hm, no. I suppose you’re not much one for traditional philosophy, religion, or the like. Although anyone could mistake you as Catholic with that guilt complex of yours.”

“Thank you, Simon. I’ll get back to you with notes on the results of our newest predictive model later this week.”

“Aw, don’t be mad Jonny!”

Despite Jon thinking of the matter as closed, it, of course, comes back to haunt him. The next time he unfortunately runs into Mike talking to Jude Perry, she jeeringly calls, “well, if it isn’t the Philosopher! Got some deep shit for me to think on?”

The title is utterly asinine. Jon doesn’t think about philosophy ( _which is not strictly the truth_ ). Even if you could use it to describe part of his powers, it hardly accounts for his traditional Vast connection to the sky. His Domain is hardly some miserable classroom decked out in an old blackboard and with desks arranged in a circle to facilitate the “Socratic method”. 

Mike, because he ultimately hates Jon, points out that nowadays Jon does dress like a professor from a small liberal arts university. He and Jude contemplate the title of Professor, before Jude says that philosopher sounds even more stuck up and insufferable than professor, and is thus the more appropriate of the two.

Jon leaves soon after, seeing a futile battle. ( _a lie. He argues for two more hours before Jude begins the transition from amused to annoyed, the air begins heating up, and Mike bluntly tells him he’s not going to stop her if she makes a go_.)

Of course, half the avatars he meets henceforth refer to him as “Philosopher”, and are very amused by the face Jon can’t stop himself from making.

Oliver, looking like he hasn’t slept in days with a dark, wide-brimmed hat shading his dark-circled eyes as he nurses coffee spiked with some heart-stopping energy drink, says it’s a respectable title. Jon asks how many fake aliases Oliver’s up to now. The man responds shamelessly with a number that makes Jon immediately walk away in disgust.

Oliver calls after him that “Professor” would have been hotter, though.

* * *

“If it isn’t the Philosopher! What’s it like to have a title now, to be further alienated from a group you already stood apart from before? But it was your decision not to take the Fairchild name, wasn’t it. I bet you like the feeling of standing apart. Much more comfortable, isn’t it?”

“Kindly piss off, Peter. Within the decade we’ll own your little boat and you won’t be such a smug bastard then. _Mark my words_.”

“Oh? Care to bet on it?”

“I’d care to bet on the Vast’s ability to eat your misting-fan of a god whole—"

* * *

Jon is sitting at a riverside café, staring out to the water, when someone sits down on the chair opposite him. There is a rebuke on his tongue, but as his head turns, he realizes that the person sitting across from him isn’t a certain burgeoning Avatar of the End.

“Gerard,” he greets while trying to sound unsurprised.

“Call me Gerry. I’ve always wanted friends to call me that.”

Jon will deny to his dying day that he blushes. It’s not like you can really tell with his complexion.

“Gerry, then. I’m somewhat surprised you’ve sought me out. We didn’t exactly leave on the best terms. Unless you’ve decided I’m too big of a threat,” a thought that ignites nerves in Jon’s belly, although Gerry doesn’t strike him as someone to imply a person is his friend then kill them.

Gerry laughs but his eyes are tired, “No, nothing like that. You’re not exactly what I’d call an unredeemable monster, Jonathan Sims. Or should I call you ‘the Philosopher’? Fancy title.”

“ _That’s_ not an actual title,” he tries to keep the grinding of his teeth off his expression, “and I prefer for my friends to call me Jon.”

The other man’s sardonic smile becomes more genuine, and he softly says, “Jon, then.”

A moment of pleased yet awkward silence passes before Jon clears his throat, “Did you come here just to imply you’ve looked into me?”

“Nah, that’s just a special bonus of talking to someone associated with the Eye. I found you because… well, fuck, I don’t really know why I came here. Guess I just didn’t have anyone else to talk to. Pathetic, right?”

“I can be a good listener,” Jon says, cursing himself for having no clue how to wipe the sad look from Gerry’s face.

“Right. Well, what you said when we met stuck with me. I’ve had a few more dizzy spells since then. Gertrude was gearing up for another trip, and I asked her to take a look at me before I knew my mouth was moving. She was pretty resistant, but when she talked me into telling her why I was asking, she did. Turns out, I have a brain tumor. It’s pretty far along; I’m probably going to die sooner than later.”

“Did the Archivist have a solution?” Jon asks through the lump in his throat.

“Ha! For herself, I guess. She left me here while she goes to America. Says she can’t have me slowing her down. Funny thing for an old woman to say to someone decades her junior. Suppose she’s right, though.”

Gerry doesn’t even look angry. He seems resigned. His smile has edged back to being sardonic and his green-blue eyes are just sad. His shoulders are slumped. There doesn’t seem to be any of the fight left in him that was so prominent just a couple months ago.

Despite only having talked to Gerry Keay for an hour total, if he’s being generous, protective anger surges up in Jon. Whatever else Gerry has done, he’s done his best to protect people from Leitners and the Entities. He’s even been helping the Archivist out while knowing that she has a reputation for ruthlessness with her assistants. Perhaps one could argue that Gerry shouldn’t have expected anything less than apathy from Gertrude Robinson, but Jon doesn’t agree. Gerry deserves more than this.

“Well, fuck her then.”

Gerry jolts and blinks at Jon owlishly. He snorts, “I didn’t expect such foul language from someone who dresses like you. Got a hidden rebellious side, Mr. Sweater Vest?”

“I bet I could name where you got that shirt. The band’s not mainstream enough to have many vendors who sell its merch.”

Gerry looks incredulously down at the band T-shirt he’s wearing under his long black coat, “Do you really have an affiliation with Beholding like the rumors say? A dual avatar will be a bit of a curveball.”

“I don’t need the Eye to tell me something I already know.”

His eyes are equally incredulous when they track back to Jon, but he’s smiling, “Really? You had some sort of punk phase?”

“Everyone has their hidden depths, Mr. Keay. Would you believe me if I told you I was in a band?”

“No!”

Jon’s laughing along with Gerry before he knows it. It’s nice. Jon doesn’t think he’s laughed so genuinely with someone since Georgie. In this moment, the thought of her doesn’t even sting. It helps Jon say his next words with confidence.

“Well, you’re not going to just give up and die. You don’t need the Archivist to find a way to live.”

“That so? I suppose I could try to spring for treatment, although Gertrude’s words make me think it may be too late for it to have much of an effect.”

“While science is preferential in dealing with most things, that’s not the only options we have available to us.”

“We, huh?” Gerry doesn’t look surprised at what Jon’s alluding to, but neither is he thrilled. Jon can almost see what’s running through the man’s mind: he’s spent most of his life doing his best to protect others from the Entities when he can, balancing himself to not fall to one or the other, only to consider giving into one now. 

“It’s- I know, it’s not an option you really want to consider, but there’s not many alternatives.”

“You think I should become a monster just because I don’t want to die?”

“You deserve to live! You’ve done so much to help people, Gerry. You’re a good person, and I don’t know the details, but I know you haven’t had the sort of life a good person deserves. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to live and, and be happy.”

“I’m not sure being a decent person for a few decades – which is _generous_ considering I never stopped my mum – makes it so I’m morally squeaky clean to feed on people from now on.”

“That’s. You don’t have to kill people. You don’t have to be a monster if you choose not to be.”

“Really? Because from what I’ve heard of you, you do your best to never kill anyone you’ve fed on. Yet one of the first things you asked me in this conversation was if I thought you were ‘too big of a threat’. Like you think you’d deserve anything I did to you. You’re one of the most benign avatars I’ve heard of. If you think you’re a monster, Jon, then how can you expect me to not be one?”

Silence falls over them like a blanket. Jon can’t meet Gerry’s eyes anymore. He turns and looks back out to the water. The amount of water molecules that are just in this one stretch of the Thames out-populates the earth several times over. Yet each individual molecule is so infinitesimal it doesn’t even register to the human eye. He wonders if that’s what he’s like to the Vast.

Gerry lets out a muted sigh. When he speaks, his voice is gently teasing, “You just want to recruit a new Vast avatar, don’t you? Feel like you need someone besides Michael Crew to join you in the ‘technically not a Fairchild’ club. He doesn’t seem the friendliest of sorts.”

“Mike is… Mike. He’s had to deal with me since I was first learning to be an avatar, which I know was an unpleasant task. I doubt it’s much better now. But as for your question, um, no, actually. The Vast isn’t necessarily known for its healing properties. Expanding one’s life, perhaps, but not really medical miracles. If you’re not already an avatar, at least.”

“Then which of our great bastard overlords do you suggest?” he asks, lounging back in his seat. He unconsciously thumbs the eye tattooed at the base of his throat.

“You’re already fairly deeply marked by the Eye, but it’s also not one of the most active of patrons. Perhaps for the Archivist, or whatever Elias is, but generally physical maladies are beneath its notice. There’s only a few Entities that I know to actively heal their avatars or those who are Becoming: The Slaughter and the Hunt are chief among them. The Flesh… normal bodily functions are often superseded by whatever… changes… are made. But…”

“Yeah, I’ll pass on that one. Hard to be nastier than the Filth, but the Flesh is a strong competitor. For the others,” Gerry trails off into silence. Nails with chipped polish drum on the metal table.

“Does one of those stand out to you? Do I get a prize if I guess correctly?”

“Smart-ass.”

“The Hunt is hardly a bad option. You can just continue hunting Leitners and avatars.”

“That’s a nice solution, but the thing is Hunters have a bad relationship with moderation. There’s no guarantee I’ll be able to discern between who I should and shouldn’t go after. Which you should be worried about, considering you fall firmly in the category of ‘avatar’.”

Jon’s fingers unconsciously begin to tap along to the rhythm Gerry’s are drumming, “Yes. I would prefer if you didn’t end up hunting me for sport. I think I may have a solution though.”

“What is it? A muzzle for when I get a bit too snap-happy?”

“Gerry, no. You actually mentioned something interesting earlier. Something about dual avatars.”

“Are you serious?”

“After a fashion. It has been pointed out to me innumerable times that my powers seem to be deeply influenced by my Eye leanings. Considering you’ve literally physically marked yourself with the Eye, perhaps you can use it as a sort of focus. Honestly, you know more about how your tattoos function than I do, so you’d know best if it could work.”

“Hm, yeah… maybe. The Eye is certainly strong in you, all things considered. Thank fake benevolent god that the Spider mark didn’t seem to take too strongly. Slaughter is also not the best look on you. That other one seems pretty strong, though it’s a bit hard to discern. Which limits the pool of options quite a bit.”

“The other one? _No_ , no. I do _not_ want to know. We were talking about you?”

Gerry snorts, “How un-Eye like of you. Suppose your mind will conjure a _vast_ amount of possible terrible truths itself anyway.”

“ _Gerry_!”

“Fine, fine. Your idea seems a bit of a stretch, but all things considered, you might not be wrong. I don’t really want to chance turning into a feral dog that doesn’t care who it hurts, but… you’re right. I don’t want to die. Especially not after making my first friend.”

Gerry stands up, stretches his arms, and begins to mosey away, “I’ve still got to think about it. No promises. Guess I’ll see you around if I don’t kick the bucket.”

Staring at the man’s retreating back, words burst from Jon’s mouth, “I’ll be waiting for you!”

Gerry pauses and looks back over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, piercing glinting.

“I mean, ah, Becoming. It’s easier to keep a hold of yourself when Becoming if you know someone will miss you as you are. It’s, it’s better, I think, if you have someone waiting. So, I’ll be waiting for you, no matter what you choose.”

Gerry’s long black hair swishes behind him as he continues to walk away, but Jon thinks he saw a smile curving his lips.

( _and the sparkle of tears in his eyes, like stars trembling in the heavens waiting to fall_ )

* * *

Gerry finds him weeks later. He grins at Jon with a mouth full of sharp teeth. The eyes tattooed on his body seem somehow more animalistic, slit pupils both watchful and anticipatory. There is genuine joy in his own green-blue eyes, and only a flash of insecurity when he says, “Want to track down a Dark Leitner with me? We could grab something to eat afterwards. Your treat, since I know Simon Fairchild hands out credit cards like candy to Vast avatars.”

“Why not? I’ve never liked a Dark avatar I’ve met. Too stuck up.”

Gerry snorts, ambling along close to Jon’s side, “I’m not sure you have room to talk. But, you know, fuck ‘em. I think the biggest thing a Dark avatar has ever accomplished is having Americans bounce back and forth between daylight savings and standard time.”

Jon lets out a startled laugh. Gerry is inordinately pleased. 

They begin a dance of tentative friendship, each having their steps waver in fear of rejection or betrayal. Uncertainty wares off surprisingly quickly. Their movements become sure. Their steps are in tune to the unique wavelength that is born in the warm harmony of friendship. Neither leads nor follows. They simply enjoy the dance.

The Fairchilds take Jon befriending a man who was dangerously canny before Becoming one of the Hunt little better than they do the nascent death that periodically haunts Jon’s steps like a second shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no universe where Jon doesn’t think Gerry Keay is super cool. You cannot convince me otherwise.
> 
> I hope you like these sad lonely boys gravitating towards each other! And Jon getting dunked on for old fashioned speech patterns lol.
> 
> A few notes:
> 
> 1\. I was recently reminded that Simon has a thing for giant fuck-off monsters (like in MAG 51) so that got to make a last minute (writing-wise) appearance here.
> 
> 2\. So I made the mistake of looking at Oliver Bank's wiki and realizing he didn't become a full Avatar of the End until further on. His dynamic with Jon ended up being different than I was originally planning. Maybe for the better? It's likely more genuine, since Jon recognizes and understands what Oliver's going through. Oliver copes by flirting and teasing the hot probably-not-human guy with stars in his eyes that's one of the first people to validate his experiences.
> 
> I'm fudging a lot of other things when it comes to Oliver, though. The dates of him giving his statement/Gertrude going to America don't match up. I'm also taking a lot of liberties with his prophetic dreams. I think he only saw people who were going to die soon in his dreamscape London? I've justified him seeing Jon in headcanoning that since a lot of avatars die to Become, and are generally associated with a lot of death, they end up also appearing in Oliver's dreams. Honestly, Oliver's dreams work this way bc it's my story and this is hardly Canon anyway.
> 
> 3\. Hunt!Gerry is inspired by "we raise it up" by savrenim and dual avatars by "Reverb in These Holy Halls" by Wolftraps. They're both very good, if you haven't already read them. we raise it up also has one of my favorite manifestation of the Spiral/Distortion. Gerry is a pretty beloved character, so I hope of my version of him stands up well enough!


	5. White Dwarf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly: I HAVE FANART!!! It's wonderful and beautiful and made by possumsquat on tumblr. An aspect of the second picture inspired me to add something to this chapter. Everyone should go check it out!  
> https://possumsquat.tumblr.com/post/623276696559321089/read-this-fic-and-i-can-not-stop-thinking-abt-a
> 
> Second, I ended up cutting this chapter into two since it turned out to be ~16,000 words long. The good news is that I actually had the back half written first, so the next chapter is pretty much written and will be out in a few days. After that, there is (theoretically) only one chapter to go!

Margaret Sims’ funeral dawns on a day like any other.

Gran’s death shouldn’t have been particularly surprising to Jon. She was old, after all, and had been slowing down for years. Yet it seems like he hasn’t breathed since he received the phone call heralding her passing.

Simon makes the arrangements. He simply tuts at Jon when he tries to insist he’s perfectly fine to make them himself. He does bow to Jon’s insistence that he and his grandmother both would hate an extravagant funeral. A small yet well-funded service is held in Bournemouth as winter melts into spring.

While Simon puts together the funeral on Jon’s behalf, neither have any interest in him attending. Jon knows Simon only understands Jon’s grief through faint memories of his youth or with the intellectual understanding of someone reading about something secondhand. He likely hasn’t had the mentality to mourn someone’s death in quite a long time. 

Jon doesn’t need manufactured sympathy and Simon doesn’t like to give it. The old man’s attendance would only cause contention between the two of them that would run deeper than their usual disagreements engender. Jon’s charitable enough to admit Mike would try his best not to upset him if he accompanied him, but the man is worse at dealing with feelings than Jon himself is. He doesn’t begrudge Mike his poorly concealed relief when Jon rebuffs his offers to go with Jon to the funeral. 

Jon expects to step on the train to Bournemouth alone. Gerry gently calls him an idiot when he appears out of the sea of humanity to stand next to Jon in the station. They’re fairly quiet as they travel on the train and throughout Jon’s preparations leading up the funeral. Just having Gerry’s quiet support next to him during the process gentles the ache that has been clawing at his throat.

There aren’t many attendees at the funeral. Many of Gran’s friends preceded her, and many more aren’t well enough to travel. Still, several elderly stand around the gravesite. Their grief is like a stone smoothed by a river; the passing of friends is an occasion common to them now. Other people from the area stop by to give their respects too, although their relationship to the late Mrs. Sims is clearly more distant. 

The crowd is still sparse enough that it is easy for Gerry and Jon to stand at the outskirts. Jon had stared at the gravestone for a while. Eventually Gerry had put a hand on his shoulder and steered him away. He handed him a tissue, and it was only then Jon realized he was crying.

After stemming the flow of his tears and wiping away the smears on his glasses, Jon looks up at his friend. Gerry smiles thinly and holds up a pale finger, fingernails dark with black. His other hand digs into his pocket. He produces two cigarettes and a lighter. Jon gratefully takes the one offered.

They stand there for quite a while, smoking quietly and staring unseeing at the tableau in front of them. All of Jon’s smoke rings remain formless regardless of any halfhearted efforts he gives.

Perhaps an hour later, Jon removes his third cigarette from between his lips and really speaks for the first time since he got on the train, “She didn’t even like me. She loved me as much as she could spare, but she never wanted me. I’ve never blamed her. Her son and daughter-in-law died and left a burden that none of the younger members in our family were willing to bear. We weren’t close. It doesn’t make sense how much this hurts.”

Gerry fiddles with the stub of his, “My mum never loved me. She used me where she could and saw me purely as an extension of her legacy. Still, when I came in to see she’d finally killed herself messing with those bloody books, I mourned her. She was never much of one, but she was still my mum. Can’t say those feelings lasted long after she started haunting me from beyond the grave, but, well. If I can mourn my explicitly evil mum, you can mourn your pretty shitty grandmum.”

“We really are a couple of messes, huh?” Jon wetly chuckles.

Gerry grins back, “Pretty much.”

Jon continues to laugh. He laughs and he’s not sure when it turns into a sob. It’s nothing like his previous silent tears. His body shudders and he drops his cigarette as his arms wrap around himself. 

They offer paltry comfort, though, compared to the warmth of Gerry as strong arms wrap around Jon’s back and shoulders. Jon lets his body lean into Gerry’s as he continues to cry. Jon’s not sure how long he stands there, but Gerry never once makes him feel unwelcomed. He mostly rubs Jon back in silent comfort, with occasional murmurs that encourage him to let out his grief.

Jon feels faintly embarrassed afterwards, but if there’s anyone he feels comfortable being vulnerable with, it’s Gerry. Mostly, he wonders how he’ll ever be able to return the favor to his friend. He doesn’t want to think of how he’d have handled his Gran’s passing on his own.

Unfortunately, his opportunity comes only a short time later.

News of the disappearance of the Archivist spreads quickly. While the community holds its breath for a while, thinking she aims to pop out like the boogey man when least expected, it quickly becomes clear that the Archivist appears to be gone for good. Speculation about her being killed as she sabotaged the Dark’s ritual or ambushed by someone shortly after abound. Many point fingers towards Elias Bouchard. Regardless of the truth, it’s soon cautiously agreed upon that the Archivist is dead.

Jon has no positive feelings towards Gertrude Robinson. Honestly, he was much more distressed at the news of Adelard Dekker’s passing. He had only met the man briefly once, when he was accompanying Gerry on a monster hunt, but his esteem for the man grew quickly. His belief in the Christian God was mildly unfathomable to Jon, but his ability to use his faith to fuel his campaign to fight against evil was inspiring. His intentions and methods were certainly purer than Gertrude’s, in Jon’s opinion.

But Jon’s opinion of the former Archivist doesn’t matter. All that matters is that the likely death strikes a knife into Gerry that he tries to hide. From both himself and Jon. No matter how he tries to brush it off, though, it’s clear the old woman still meant something important to him even after their parting.

When Jon carefully pulls the taller man into a hug that mirrors the one he had given Jon at his grandmother’s funeral, Gerry crumples over and into him. Jon doesn’t think Gerry cries, but he clings fiercely to Jon and does not let go for quite a while.

* * *

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about your grandmother,” Oliver says, slumped on the ground of the park. He stares at the sky with hands clenching and unclenching around the grass. His eyes occasionally begin to close like he’s about to drift off to sleep, but he inevitably jerks awake a moment later.

Jon, leaning against a tree trunk, marks the page in his book before he closes it, “I hardly expect you to have known the health of a random woman living in Bournemouth. She didn’t die unnaturally, Oliver. She was old. It didn’t, it didn’t have to do with any of us. People die, fear gods or no fear gods.

Oliver makes a noncommittal noise and continues to stare at the sky. The black man isn’t always full of mischief and teasing – in fact, a mixture of desperation, and despair almost always underlies his geniality – but something about his current melancholy strikes Jon. It causes him to wait rather than resume his reading.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this Jon. It feels pointless.”

“I- assuming you mean trying to do something with your dreams and not something- something else, it’s not your job to save everybody. You’re trying; doesn’t that mean something?”

“I couldn’t even save my own father. I saw the root curled around him, knew his death was coming, and I still couldn’t save him. I thought maybe I could use my dreams to help someone, at least, but I know I can’t. Death always claims what’s its in the end. And everything belongs to it, eventually. No, Jon, I’m not sure it means anything”

“Oliver…” Jon trails off, unsure what to say. 

His eyes trace from the sky over to Jon. He gives him a wan smile, “I’m not asking you to fix it or anything. You’re one of the only bright spots left in my life, you know. I poke at you all the time, and even if you bristle like a cat, I know you do your best to support me. But these things. You can’t fight them, can you? That’s why you always look so guilty. I wish you wouldn’t look guilty when you look at me. If it’s not my duty to save everyone I see die in my dreams, it’s not your duty to save me.”

Jon breaks eye contact, looking off to the side. His skin prickles at the honesty in Oliver’s expression and words. He hugs his book to his chest. It seems wrong, that he could say that he enjoys having Jon in his life in the same breath he absolves Jon of guilt. Jon wants so badly for Oliver to break the chain of the End; to prove that the dread powers can be resisted. 

Is it selfish of Jon to want that? For Oliver to not give up when he’s clearly suffering. But the thought of Oliver ending his suffering, in whatever form, makes Jon’s fingers shake. Who knows how someone changes when they become an avatar of the End? There are so few of them, it’s hard to know. And the other obvious method of escape… Jon won’t think of it.

“You, you can’t give up, Oliver. I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’m so, so sorry. But don’t give up. You’re strong enough to have lasted for years – that’s amazing. If anyone can resist one of the dread powers, it’s you.”

Oliver smiles, eyes exhausted, “I’ll try my best. But you’ll owe me a date. You’ll have to take me to some fancy restaurant on a high up rooftop. You can rearrange the stars so they say ‘Oliver + Jon 4ever’. That’s real romance right there.”

Jon scoffs and accepts the change in topic. Oliver flirts and Jon deflects. Jon lets the familiar routine soothe him as it seems to soothe Oliver. Jon clings to hope even as fear clutches at his heart, and wills for Oliver to feel it too.

* * *

There’s a sticky note on his front door. Jon doesn’t recognize the handwriting, but judging by the content dealing with the fate of ‘Jane Prentiss’ and her danger to the inhabitants of a certain institute, he can guess who it’s from. In shaky writing: _My warning to the last Archivist didn’t do any good. You helped Gerard Keay. Maybe you can help her_.

Jon doesn’t think he saved Gerry, exactly, but it that’s not really the point. If Oliver’s bothered writing to him, then something dire is happening at the Magnus Institute. Jon doesn’t really have anything to do with them, but he knows he needs to at least tell Gerry. He has a lot of complicated feelings about the place.

The urge to try and see if Oliver’s still in the area strikes him. But Oliver’s dreams don’t necessarily give him a good timeframe for people’s deaths. It’s simpler with normal humans. With the fear-touched, however, death can continue to coil and coil around them for years until fate overtakes them. There’s no way of knowing if the Archivist is in danger of dying tonight or in five years. The existence of Jane Prentiss just means that it’s likelier to be a problem sooner than later.

Out of the corner of his eye he spots something laid on the floor next to his door. He bends down and picks up a blue rose. It’s had its thorns carefully removed and its stem is smooth against his fingers. He’ll have to put it in some water later, but he doesn’t feel like he has the time to rummage around his apartment for a vase at the moment.

Jon’s feet waver before they begin to reluctantly move away from his apartment towards Gerry’s. The rose is absentmindedly tucked into his bun as he digs out his phone. He thumbs through his contacts to bring up his friend’s name. Bringing his phone to his ear, he thinks that Oliver will pop up sooner or later and he can tell him about what happens to the Archivist then.

Maybe he’ll even deign to take Oliver somewhere up high. Oliver likes looking at the sky; there’s not many roots there. Or Jon could even do him one better and take him into his Domain. It makes Jon a bit flustered to think about, despite having taken Gerry there before, so he pushes it to the side. He has time to decide before the next time he sees his shadow.

( _Jon doesn’t hear from Oliver for quite a while after the note appears. The next time he sees him, the man is more than marked by death. The air around him is cold. Oliver’s presence is now announced by a shiver thrilling down Jon’s spine. He’s still as handsome as ever, perhaps even moreso now that he doesn’t appear to be haunted by sleeplessness, but something in his eyes is dead. Or something in his heart, maybe. He no longer feels that frantic need to stave off death from others._

 _Jon can’t help but wish that, for once, he had gone looking for Oliver. He doesn’t even know how he Became, not until they have a long talk, but he can’t help but feel that he could have stopped it. Even if that’s unrealistic, or hypocritical considering Jon’s status. He should have done_ something _._

_Oliver smiles at Jon and it is still a living thing, despite everything._

_Jon pretends it’s not intense relief that he feels_.)

* * *

Jon lightly jogs next to Gerry to keep up with his longer strides. They don’t know if the apparently imminent attack on the archives is going to be happening today or tomorrow or even next week. Gerry said there’s no need to rush, but his increasingly fast walk indicates otherwise. Jon isn’t sure if it’s fueled by unconscious worry or a Hunter sense leading him to his current prey.

He _is_ worried either way. Gerry cares about people, and even if he’s flippantly denounced his time with the previous Archivist, her disappearance still hasn’t left his mind. Jon isn’t surprised that the lack of closure has manifested in his need to help the current Archivist. Gerry’s wanted to at least meet her since word spread a new one had been appointed. He’s just been denying himself so that he doesn’t have to admit Gertrude meant as much as she did to him.

It’s easier to deal with pain when you act like its cause wasn’t that important anyway. Heavens know Jon tried and miserably failed to do that when Georgie first rejected him. And at least he had the ( _admittedly cold_ ) comfort of knowing Georgie cared about him – still cares, for whatever reason. She’s incredibly glad to hear about Gerry whenever they talk. Even if it’s carefully curated information so that the aspects of Jon’s life that unnerve her aren’t mentioned. He also hasn’t mentioned Gran passing, since he’d rather not have her earnest sympathy reopen a scabbing wound. 

Gerry begins bloodying his lip where he gnaws at it and Jon takes a stab at distracting him, “Well, at least Jane Prentiss doesn’t house a more dangerous bug.”

“Yea, worms aren’t the most intimidating of the Filth’s hives,” Gerry huffs and thankfully leaves his poor lip alone.

“Could you imagine if she had wasps in her? Even non-supernatural wasps are evil. Although perhaps we shouldn’t underestimate the malevolence lurking in a worm.”

“Right, I’m sure they’ll be coming at us with mini knives. It’ll be a real bloodbath.”

“I suppose it’s our job to make sure it isn’t a bloodbath, mini knives or no.”

“It doesn’t pay to underestimate any avatar. But that’s why I have _these_ ,” Gerry says, hefting up the two fire extinguishers in his hands.

One of the many advantages of Gerry being a pseudo-dual avatar is that he is able to know the best weapons for a particular hunt. It’s possible that this knowledge is simply a component of the Hunt, but they think most Hunters go with a basic repertoire of ‘shoot, stab, burn’ rather than identifying the most advantageous of weapon choice.

The ability is quite useful, considering Jon doesn’t think shooting or stabbing worms will have much effect. They could theoretically burn down the Archive, but that would likely have a negative effect on the residence they’re trying to help. And Jon’s probably not supposed to burn down a temple to another god without at least telling Simon first.

He doesn’t see Elias around nearly as often as he unfortunately sees Peter, but their first meeting years ago is still stark in his mind. Jon’s not thrilled at the thought of running into him again. The thought of helping the Archivist and him by proxy is also not tempting, but he thinks the rumors that he killed Gertrude may hold some water. He’s heard from Simon that there was no love lost between them. Perhaps helping the current major avatar of Beholding could inconvenience the man in some way.

Soon enough, they arrive at the steps of the institute. They exchange glances before Gerry hands him one of the fire extinguishers and leads them inside. He breezes past the receptionist attempting to stop him and Jon follows in his wake. It’s clear Gerry has been here before and knows where he’s going.

Jon wonders if the other man half-expects to see Gertrude waiting for him downstairs. Nostalgia can conjure the ghosts of people you haven’t seen for years, including ones you will never see again. Their feet pound down the stairs, Gerry’s footsteps louder than Jon’s naturally light ones since he’s not bothering to be stealthy. They round their way into what Jon assumes is the Archives proper. 

For better or worse, Gerry doesn’t get the chance to fall into nostalgia. 

Three people are gathered in the middle of the room. They look horrified into another room that silvery worms slowly crawl out of. 

One of them is saying, “why are they coming out of the walls?!” while another says something about throwing a stapler at the wall because a spider startled them and the worms began slipping through the cracks.

The situation isn’t quite dire, but it’s likely to escalate there quickly.

“Seems like we got here just in time. Did you already have a plan to combat Prentiss?” Gerry says, striding further into the room.

He passes a larger man who sputters, “Who are you?”

Jon stays back towards the stairs and observes as Gerry walks over to a wary woman he assumes is the Archivist and another increasingly hostile looking man who steps protectively closer to her.

“You going to answer Martin’s question?” the man asks.

Gerry lifts the fire extinguisher in his hands and uses it to spray some of the approaching worms back, “Here to help. We heard you were going to have a pest problem.”

The Archivist’s eyes lock onto it, “You know Jane Prentiss? And how to fight her worms?”

“I mean, the Filth’s hives are pretty hard to miss when they’re active. They leave a bloody mess everywhere.”

“What to you mean by the Filth’s… no, wait a minute. Are you Gerard Keay?”

“Ding, ding. Congratulations on identifying the ‘goth with a bad hair dye and eye tattoos’, as I’ve been informed I’m often described as. No time for that right now, Archivist; do you or do you not have a plan? Because those worms seem fit to break through that wall in a moment.”

And he’s right. Gerry’s hearing is keener than the average person’s, but Jon can hear the faint noise of structural strain. When the wall breaks, he doubts his and Gerry’s fire extinguishers alone will be enough to fight off what’s lurking behind it.

“I, well, I insisted Elias fill the fire suppression system with CO2.”

“Great – there’s something nice about killing a fear monster through non-supernatural means. Let’s go turn it on.”

“I don’t think it’ll turn on just by pulling the fire alarm. You have to do it manually, and I don’t know where it is…”

“Well, Know it then.

“I can’t just _know_ things,” she says frustratedly.

“Maybe you’re a bit new, but Knowing something like the location of something in your own territory should be simple. Just reach out and ask.”

“That’s not,” she says in the same tone, but her eyes flutter shut and after a moment of silence she continues in a shakier voice, “It’s upstairs past the cafeteria, down two hallways to the right, and then through a service entrance to the left at the far end.”

The man next to her looks down at her head in shock, “Sasha, how—”

The sound of something crumbling and breaking roars over the question as a tidal wave of small squirming creatures floods into the room. Gerry uses his fire extinguisher to give them cover, but the three are forced to flee further into the room.

Jon curses and reaches forward to grab the man standing close to him who is dumbly staring at the sight. He stumbles a bit, but though larger than Jon, goes easily as Jon pulls him towards the stairs. It’s evident that Gerry or the Archivist likely won’t be getting upstairs anytime soon, so it’s up to Jon and this archival assistant to flush the building with CO2. Hopefully the man can help Jon navigate through the building, because he’s utterly uncertain where even the cafeteria could be.

“Wait, we can’t leave Tim and Sasha behind!”

“They’re with Gerry. If anyone can get them through a situation like this, it’s him,” Jon replies, suppressing his own worry because what he said is the truth.

With a last look behind him the man seems to concede that’s there’s nothing he can really do at this point. They race up the stairs and onto the main floor. The other man doesn’t say anything when he stops abruptly. Jon pauses to ask what he thinks he’s doing, but the question is answered immediately by the sound of the fire alarm going off. 

The man’s knuckles are white around the handle, and he seems to feel the need to explain, “I, I know that Sasha said this doesn’t connect to what we need, but, um, I thought it’d be best if everyone else left the building. Spooky worm lady attacking, and all.”

“Yes, that’s probably wise,” Jon acknowledges, although the sound of alarm is grating to his ears.

He gestures for the other man to lead the way, and with an “oh, right”, he does. Jon has to admit, while he’s clearly still terrified, his round boyish face is set in lines of clear determination. If this is his first encounter with an avatar of another god, he’s doing pretty well in performing under pressure. Well, he supposes being an archival assistant isn’t for the faint of heart.

They move quickly together through the building, weaving through the tide of people that begin pouring out of rooms and moving outside. The other man leads him past what Jon can vaguely tell is a cafeteria as the doors open and close behind its previous occupants. No one questions where they’re going until an unfortunately familiar voice stops them in their tracks.

“Why Jon, if I had known you were so interested in the Institute, I would have been happy to offer you a job.”

Elias Bouchard stands in their path, hands folded and seemingly at ease despite the attack on his institute. His eyes focus intently on Jon. Despite the geniality in his voice, it’s clear he’s displeased by Jon’s presence. 

“I’m afraid I’m not in the job market.”

“Oh, what a shame. While I’d love to have the opportunity to change your mind, I’m afraid you’ll have to schedule an appointment.”

The archival assistant is looking incredulously between the two of them and the situation at large. Jon thinks that’s fair.

“Considering your institute is under attack, I don’t think this is the time for this, Elias.”

“So it seems. I do have to wonder why the Fairchilds are meddling where they don’t belong.”

“If you want an answer to that, feel free to ask the End. It’s one of its marked that sent me here.”

Elias’ smile pulls tight at the corner and Jon takes the opportunity of the man’s momentary unease to grab ahold of the archival assistant and haul him in the direction of the supposed fire suppression system. He walks briskly enough that he won’t be in the vicinity if Elias calls his bluff. What Jon said isn’t a lie, exactly, but he’s certain it is Oliver’s humanity that led him to leave that note for Jon, not the dread god that haunts him.

The two enter the hallway the Archivist indicated. They’re making good time when worms begin to spill out of the vents.

“Oh no, what are they doing here? What, worms can climb now? Does being evil let them have a pass for the laws of gravity,” the man says, stumbling backwards and grabbing Jon’s shoulder to take him with him.

Jon snorts at the comment but shakes off the man’s hands and his fretting. He looks between the fire extinguisher still sitting heavily in his grip and the ever-increasing flood of worms. 

“This is taking too long. Best just to cut out this part entirely,” Jon decides.

He pushes the fire extinguisher into one of the man’s arms and takes the hand of the other. The archival assistant awkwardly accepts the first. As soon has Jon’s hand grasps his own, though, he sputters incredulously as red explodes over his face.

Jon’s sympathetic to how awkward he must feel that some random person grabbed his hand; maybe even angry that Jon seems to be doing something so inane in a serious situation. He’ll just have to hold on for a moment. He’s going to want to keep ahold of Jon where they’re going.

Jon steps out of this world and into another, dragging the still sputtering man behind him

***

Martin steps along with the man dragging him by the hand. He’s much too shocked to resist, even if they’re going in the direction of the worms, which he is decidedly not a fan of. 

Martin has no clue who this man is, besides that he’s apparently acquainted with Gerard Keay, who pops up in statements every so often. He also seems to know Elias? And not in a pleasant way, considering the low-level aggression he treated Martin’s boss with. It was a bit funny to see the usually unflappable man be caught off-guard, though.

The mystery man has warm brown skin with an austere face. He thinks he may see a glimmer in his eyes behind his glasses. His hair is a deep brown or black streaked with shining silver that makes him look even more distinguished. It’s pulled up in in a neat bun with a blue rose laced through it. Despite all the running they’ve done, his hair and flower have never once been particularly jostled or looked in trouble of falling.

In fact, there is an air of lightness to the man that made everything feel floaty around him. Or perhaps that is just Martin’s heart. But, honestly, the man looks like something out of a fairytale. How do you expect Martin to react to him suddenly appearing to apparently help save them from Jane Prentiss? How could you possibly _not_ expect Martin’s heart to feel like it’s about to drift off into space when said man suddenly grabs his hand, fingers interlocking like a solved puzzle?

So, yes, Martin follows the man where he leads him. His brain certainly doesn’t have the capacity to be giving any commands at the moment.

Martin steps, and it feels like he steps through something. Perhaps it feels like whatever pushing through a membrane would feel like. It’s like a puff of cool air, but not unpleasant. Maybe like turning the corner and catching a blast of the sea’s breeze – or, on that note, jumping into cold water on a hot day. His ears pop a little as if he were on an airplane taking off and gaining altitude. He ponders this sensation in the moment, but by the time the moment is over, there is something far grander to marvel at.

The blare of the fire alarm fades from his hearing as the image of the hallway swarming with worms dissolves. In its place is wonder.

Stars crust the sky like diamonds. They gleam and glitter, swirling in nebulas, and dancing together in constellations he’s sure don’t even exist. The darkness is bright with them and he can hardly bear to tear his eyes from above. When he manages to, he sees the image mirrored on the ground. As above, so below.

A twin sky stretches out as far as he can see into the distance. The only thing not a part of the glimmering night is the incongruous dock the two stand on. Martin manages to rip his eyes away from his breathtaking surroundings to look at the man he assumes brought him here.

There is a slight smile on his lips for the first time. Something like pride etched on his face as he takes in Martin’s awed gaping. He’s sure the look on his face is incredibly unattractive, but he can’t wholly regret it since his reaction has clearly pleased the other man. 

He doesn’t say anything. Instead he turns forward and tugs Martin by the hand to follow. Martin does. Their steps thump along the wooden dock until they reach its end. Then the man pulls them both off.

Martin has a moment of panic. He’s certain he will fall down into the sky. Or will he fall up into it? Is he looking down into the sky above him, or are these two identical but separate skies? Will he be able to breath among the stars? Will this man stay with him and hold his hand as they fall or float, or will he be let go to fall alone?

His feet splash through a thin layer of water. It only comes partway up the soles of his shoes. He blinks in rapid surprise, but has little time to contemplate what happened as his arm is pulled taught and he continues to be led forward.

Water covers the ground in a thin veil that acts as a perfect reflection of the sky. His feet clumsily splash through it, and he feels faint regret at ruining the tableau. It’s not too bad. His presence seems to affect the environment minimally. Only faint ripples echo from his steps, and they’re gone as soon as his feet take the next.

He looks to the man leading him. It shouldn’t be so noticeable, but Martin immediately realizes that his feet don’t break the water. He steps smoothly over the top of its surface. The twin image of the sky remains unbroken as he glides forward.

The silver of his hair is clearly starlight here; streaks of stars shooting over him. The side of his face that Martin can see is flatteringly highlighted by the gauzy light. He is phantasmal. Martin can only barely see the corner of his eye, but now he’s certain there is something shining there.

He reflexively tightens his hand and the hand holding his squeezes back. The other man glances back at Martin and gives him what is maybe a small comforting quirk of his lips, but Martin is too enamored with everything that is happening so that he can’t read into it because oh my gosh how is any of this possible and happening to Martin—

“Hm, this should be far enough,” the man murmurs, voice as silky as the tapestry of black and bright silver-white that illuminates this place.

When they step forward Martin experiences the same weird sensation from when they entered the starscape. Accordingly, when they step down, the blare of the fire alarm erupts back into life.

They are at the far end of the hallway. The swarm of worms they had encountered is fairly far behind them and the door to what should be maintenance in front of them. The other man reaches over to open the door.

“I have to know where I’m going to do that, so I couldn’t just get us here from the Archives,” the man explains to Martin, who was definitely not wondering about that. A few more prevalent questions are on his mind.

The door opens up to a room swathed in darkness. The light from the hallway illuminates enough for them to ascertain that they have made it to the maintenance room, but everything is otherwise indistinct. The other man flips the light switch. Nothing happens.

“Are you kidding me?” he deadpans.

Martin glances back down the hallway and is alarmed to see that some of the worms have begun making their way towards them. He tugs on their joined hands, and while the man glances down at them in surprise, he follows Martin’s line of sight. 

“Right,” he says and pulls Martin into the room with him.

The door closes behind them. Martin can’t see anything. He only knows where his probably-definitely-not-human companion is by their continued connection. Martin remembers he has a phone in his pocket that has a flashlight just as the other man speaks.

“My eyesight is actually better in the dark. If I take off my glasses, I should be able to find something useful…”

The warm hand holding his slips between Martin’s fingers. He has a moment of paralysis, thinking that he is about to be left in the dark with no way to know if silvery worms are inching their way ever closer to make a home out of his unwilling flesh. In a flash of fearful panic, he reaches in front of him to search for his companion.

Soft fabric meets his fingers. He must startle the man because he whips is head around to stare at Martin. Marin knows this because he can feel gentle breaths caress his face. He can also see his eyes.

For the second time, Martin is starstruck. Perhaps literally. The white of the man’s eyes seem to glow. Not by themselves, but by the luminescence of the sparks of light the live in the dark of his eyes. The man’s dark irises are alive with what can be nothing other than miniature stars. They gleam with the same brightness as those from the starscape, winking at Martin from their impossible home. This close, Martin thinks he can count how many bedazzle the incredibly dark brown of the iris. They’re the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen, and he can’t hope to look away now that they’ve caught his. 

Martin has been holding hands with a man full of stars.

“You’re beautiful,” Martin breathes.

A strangled squeaking noise meets his ears and the only light in the room flickers in what Martin assumes to be rapid blinks. The fabric disappears from beneath his fingers and he stumbles forward, left adrift. 

He hears the sound of something turning. The man has found the CO2 release.

This is clear due to the indescribable scream that echoes throughout the institute and what feels like Martin’s very soul. His knees buckle and he is only just able to stay on his feet. He doesn’t think he’ll ever hear a more terrible noise in his life. He _hopes_ he never hears a more terrible noise. 

He shakes his head to get rid of the echoing rage resounding in his mind. The sound of a door opening grabs his attention and his looks up. The outline of the Star-Man is backlighted by the light of the hallway. Only his shining eyes are clearly distinguishable on his shadowed form.

“You, um, should be good to go back now. The hive is certainly dead, considering that scream. All of the worms died with her. So… yes. Have a nice life.” 

The door shuts behind him and Martin is left in the dark, clutching a now useless fire extinguisher and new impossible crush.

***

Gerry meets him outside of the institute, beyond the lines of firetrucks and emergency vehicles. He is quiet, besides saying that the Archivist and her assistant got out alright, with only a few gouged-out holes where they had to dig out particularly enterprising worms to show for it. He offhandedly asks Jon if the other assistant made it. He doesn’t even pounce on Jon’s stuttering and circuitous response.

It’s only when he’s followed Jon to his apartment and Jon is in the process of heating up leftovers, after he remembers to put the blue rose in a vase he has sitting in the cupboard, that Gerry speaks up.

“I found Gertrude. She was in the tunnels that run under the institute. Funny, we joked once about that. I guess she never trusted me much. She was dead, as you can guess. Shot and left to rot with tapes surrounding her in the room. I told the Archivist – Sasha – about her and that she should probably get to some of those tapes before the police, but I don’t know if she’ll remember to take my advice with the shock and all.”

“This her first time taking on another avatar?”

“Oh, that’s the best part Jon,” Gerry chuckles darkly, “They don’t know _anything_. They’ve started to figure out things are real and maybe are catching on to some patterns. Sasha mentioned she worked in artifact storage, so she had some idea before becoming the Archivist. But apparently Elias is playing clueless bureaucrat, and they have no clue what the Dread Powers are, what sort of world they’ve entered, or the fact they’re tied to one themselves. The Archivist has no clue that that title means more than a job position to write on a resume. What the _hell_.”

“That’s… more than odd. He _did_ seem incredibly displeased I was helping to save his archival workers. What could Elias hope to accomplish by having the main avatar of the Eye languish in ignorance? Not only is that contrary to their nature, that’s just asking for her to die.”

“I have no clue what’s running through that bastard’s head…” Gerry grumbles tiredly, running his hand through his hair.

Jon pulls the leftovers out of the oven, but pushes it back in when it proves not to be hot enough. He takes off his oven mitt and raises an eyebrow at Gerry.

“I’m guessing you’re going to find out. I can’t see you leaving them to figure out what’s going on the hard way. And that’s not even considering that Gertrude’s body has been found. Considering the police will likely be poking around, you’ll have to be careful about both them and Elias. You have a bit of a record that would make you a prime suspect, Mr. Keay.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t tell me to be careful, Jon. That’s my job. When Jonathan Sims has the right to tell me not to be reckless, it’s time for me to retire to a nice wood where I can live out my remaining years hunting small game. Maybe I’ll get lucky and a girl will walk through it to deliver food to her grandmother’s house.”

“Alright, Big Bad, come get your lasagna. We can plan on how you’re going to ruin Elias’ inexplicable schemes over dinner.”

* * *

“Statement of Vera O’Neal, regarding the man who understands infinity. Statement taken May 2013. Statement recorded by Sasha James, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. 

Statement begins.

Okay, I know that this doesn’t sound creepy or supernatural like you guys want here. Probably it sounds pretentious: ‘the man who understands infinity’. Just read to the end, please. You’ll understand. At least, as much as I do.

I guess I should tell you a bit about myself. I don’t do anything exciting; just an office job. It’s something that pays the bills. I never went to university. My family wasn’t well-off and I didn’t test well enough to be a star student. I like learning and challenging myself, but I always panicked when I had to remember so much material for exams. So, I got a job immediately after graduating secondary school and have been working since.

This all being said, I’m something of an amateur mathematician. That probably sounds a bit pretentious too. I just like numbers. Equations are like little puzzles that have different ways to be solved but with one true answer. Usually. Maths is just the subject that always clicked for me in school. I’ve done some personal reading over the years, but I decided I really wanted to go back to a learning environment.

I’m pretty frugal in spending. I don’t have much I like to splurge on and I don’t have any kids I need to save up for. Some of my friends encouraged me to take some math classes at a local university and I decided, well, why not? I’d taken a few before the one I met the man in. But this one was different even before he came in. In a totally mundane way, unfortunately.

Professor Ridley was a prick. If he was racist, he tried to at least be covert about it, but he was definitely classist and sexist. That stupid mentality men in maths and science have that women shouldn’t be in those spaces was clearly strong in him. That already wasn’t great for me and the five or so other women in class. There were a couple more, but they dropped out within a couple weeks, the poor dears. 

On top of that, he clearly saw academic institutions as a privileged place. There were a few people besides me who were clearly coming to an upper educational setting later in life. Along with some kids who didn’t come from the wealthiest of families. He was incredibly condescending when answering one of our questions, and within a few weeks in I was the only one of us he disfavored who dared to ask questions at all.

All of this together meant he bloody hated me. Couldn’t stand some middle-aged woman who had never properly attended uni sitting in and daring ask him questions. I didn’t confront him about it because I really did just want to learn. And it is excruciatingly awkward to challenge someone in power in a place that clearly doesn’t want you. I was willing to just ignore him and do my best to take in what he was teaching. But, you know, he was kind of a shite teacher anyway. Can’t say I’m too sorry about what happens.

It’s midway into the semester when the man shows up to class. It was hard to tell how old he was, since his dark hair was streaked in silver and there were some stress lines around his eyes, but his face was pretty youthful all things considered. His clothes were nondescript but well made. He looked pretty intelligent, but that might have just been the glasses and the aloof look on his face. People always mistake unemotional men for being smart. Still, there was something about him. It felt like he was looking at something impossibly far away. Sitting close by him, there was both a distance and gravity to his presence. I discounted that as having read too many fiction novels recently, but now… who knows?

None of us had ever seen him before, but he was sitting calmly at one of the desks like he was meant to be there. So, we just sort of side-eyed him and waited to see if Ridley would say anything when he came in.

He didn’t. He didn’t even seem to notice the man. Not in a supernatural way. He may have just not been paying attention or was doing his best to ignore us altogether. Either way, he continued the lesson that we had started last class. It was a pretty normal class for the most part and the newcomer faded into my peripherals. Ridley was a shite person as usual. Incredibly condescending whenever someone not a decently well-off young man asked questions and obnoxiously superior whenever he deigned to answer one of my questions. Ugh. Prick.

This continued for a few more classes, actually. It wasn’t until the fourth one he attended that the man raised his hand. I had mostly been ignoring him at this point, besides re-picking up on the weird atmosphere around him once in a while. Ridley blinked at him unsurely. Maybe he realized the man hadn’t been there at the beginning of class. None of us said anything, though. Not even Ridley’s darlings. Something about the man made it seem like a poor idea to tattle on him, I suppose.

Ridley gestured at him to ask his question, and he did.

He asked, in an admittedly nice and smooth voice, ‘do you know Graham’s number?’

I did. A bit. I had heard of it, at least. I suppose you likely haven’t, given I’d heard of it more as a ‘math fun fact’, which most people aren’t exactly interested in. Not that I blame you if you don’t. But let me tell you a bit about it. It’s important.

Graham’s number is one of the largest specific positive integers ever to have been used in a published mathematical proof. There are larger now, like TREE from Kruskal's theorem, but it is still staggeringly immense. It is many times larger than other numbers that are many times larger than a googolplex. You’ve likely heard of a googolplex, but as a refresher: that’s 10(10^100), or 1 followed by 10100 zeroes. As in, a massive bloody number that we can’t even picture fully. And Graham’s number is an order of magnitude _larger_.

It is so large that the observable universe is far too small to contain an ordinary digital representation of Graham's number, assuming that each digit occupies one Planck volume, possibly the smallest measurable space. But even the number of digits in this digital representation of Graham's number would itself be a number so large that its digital representation cannot be represented in the observable universe. Nor even can the number of digits of that number—and so forth, for a number of times far exceeding the total number of Planck volumes in the observable universe. Thus, Graham's number cannot be expressed even by power towers of the form _a^ b^c^…_. So, written out fully, it is _literally_ inconceivable. 

Though too large to be computed in full, the sequence of digits of Graham's number can be computed explicitly through simple algorithms. Ronald Graham, the man who created the number, created a recursive formula to define it. 

That’s probably too much information, sorry. It’s just a bit hard to stop talking about it once I’ve started, now. Just understand that while it is usable as an upper bound in theorems, Graham’s number is in essence too large for the observable universe. Which is, in turn, much larger than the human mind. It is incomprehensible in its immensity. It is, for all intents and purposes, like trying to measure out infinity. 

But the man. He _understands it_.

Ridley had begun rattling off more or less what I told you. But the man cuts him off. 

He said ‘would you like to know it? All of it?”

Ridley off course scoffs and says that’s impossible. Literally, actually, impossible, may I remind you. But the man doesn’t appear moved. Do you remember when I said that I felt both a sense of distance and gravity around him? The gravity begins to outweigh the distance. We were all looking at him, our attention fastened to what he was saying.

‘What if you could? Do you believe that if anyone could understand Graham’s number, it would be you?’

And Ridley, looking uneasy for the first time I’ve seen him, says yes. Now, I want to say, I don’t think this was mind control. I think, the pompous arse that he is, even knowing that Graham’s number exceeds the _observable universe_ , he truly believed he had the capacity to fathom the unfathomable.

And I think, after watching him for a few days, the man knew that as well.

‘Well, you should write it down, shouldn’t you? How else will others know your genius?’

Ridley picks up his chalk and begins to write on the blackboard.

What happens next – I don’t think it was possible? I mean that in a lot of ways, but. Well. Ridley starts to write a number, then another, then another, then another…

The board shouldn’t be that large. It’s bigger than the wall it’s on. Then it’s bigger than the room. Then it’s bigger than the building. Then it’s bigger…

We watch as Ridley attempts to write a number more immense than the universe. He writes and writes and writes. His writing begins to grow sloppier and more frantic the longer the number becomes, the mumbles of the next number in sequence becoming a chant that fills our ears. When I blink, I can still see the string of numbers on the back of my eyelids. Can’t really make out what most of them are, but, well.

He doesn’t make it to the end, of course. I’d say it was impossible, but by the time he’s forced to stop I’d say the board was nearly the size of London. It didn’t make any sense, but it loomed up and around in every direction. At the far sides, where you can just see the edges of something not green and white and numbers and the space between numbers, I think I saw stars. What is impossible?

Ridley wasn’t only seeing the numbers like we were. He was storing them, burning them into his mind to understand them, like the man said. Trying to hold ginormous, immense, vast, infinite numbers in your head. What does that do to a person’s mind?

The chalk falls from his hand and the powder white covered fingers reach up to clench at his hair. He doubles over and moans in agony as a litany of numbers continue to fall from his lips like a prayer. A crazed eye darts up and finds the man who had been sitting calmly in our midst. I don’t know what Ramsey wanted to say to him. All that came out of his mouth was the next number in line.

The man and Ridley’s eyes meet and a second of this timeless place we’d entered stretches into eternity. Then it breaks. ‘It’ being Ridley’s head. Perhaps more accurately, it implodes.

I don’t know how to describe what happened. Have you ever seen an image of a black hole? I looked one up afterwards. Something about the stars I’d seen twinkling at the edges of the endless blackboard compelled me to.

What happened to Ridley’s head isn’t exactly like the images online of when a star dies. They weren’t taken in person, for one thing. Still, they’re similar. Ridley’s mind collapses on itself under the weight of infinity. A hole so dark it looks like a rip in reality takes its place.

Its gravity immediately begins pulling at its surroundings. The chalk lifts from the board, numbers disintegrating as white motes swirl into the air. They flow gently like snow caught in a breeze. For a moment the swirling cloud of white particles is like a galaxy filled to the brim with stars. Then, they are eaten by the greedy mouth of the black hole.

It grows stronger. The blackboard fractures and crumbles. Impossibly large pieces disappearing into the comparatively small tear. There was a black void filled with stars and other heavenly bodies behind it, I think. I couldn’t take much of it in by that point though, because the gravity was reaching to us. I clutched at the desk I was somehow still sitting at, trying to resist its pull. Some of the people in class let go before me, falling sideways through the air and beyond the knowable universe.

The man stood in the middle of us, appearing unaffected. His hands were in his pockets as he observed the phenomenon that was formerly Ridley. His own gravity clashed with the black hole’s. It created waves that washed over us like we were swimming in the ocean. 

After one particularly violent clash our desks are all jarred from the floor. With nothing to hold us down we float weightless. Then we’re caught in the riptide and I’m flung from my hold on the desk, nails smarting from where I had tried to cling. I look to the man as I fall past him, and his eyes are full of _stars_.

And then—

We are beyond the event horizon.

I sat at my desk in the classroom. I remember gasping like I had been drowning. It felt like I had. There probably isn’t any air within a black hole. Or perhaps there’s no difference between air or anything else within it, which amounts to the same. Is there everything or nothing beyond the horizon?

Ridley was catatonic at the front of the classroom. He was slumped over his desk with a piece of chalk in his hand. He was alive though; the uncontrollable shaking gave it away. The rest of us were comparatively better, but not what I would consider doing well. The only one unaffected, unsurprisingly, was the man. He stood in the middle of the classroom and looked at his aftermath.

The man grimaced and muttered to himself, ‘I have far worse control when I don’t like them. He didn’t even get that far, really. Practically nothing, relatively. I still have to be better about this next time.’

He takes one more look around, assessing if the rest of us appeared relatively coherent by the way he pokes at one of the boys near me the seemed the most out of it and ascertained he wasn’t, well, like Ridley. Then he left.

I doubt I will ever see him again. It would probably be best that I never see him again. He was not human. Not only because of the obvious, but also because I think he could have recited all of Graham’s number, if he wanted to. I think he may be able to understand concepts even larger, too. 

Someone called an ambulance. I don’t know what exactly happened to Ridley, but he doesn’t work at that college anymore. My classmates seemed alright for the most part, although we all dealt with the trauma with varying degrees of success. The most successful put it down to a mass hallucination; the school and police made noises about a gas leak or some shite. Don’t know how they could try to deny what happened. It’s not like it didn’t leave a mark. I’m sure I’m not the only one who dreams of infinity. 

You know? I still do like numbers.

Statement ends. 

Well, that certainly sounds like our guy. Martin’s mentioned just about every feature on him multiple times, so it’s hard to forget what he looks like. It’s cute, but probably not the best crush for him to have, all things considered.

Gerry won’t talk about him, when he comes around. And he has popped in a few times. He’s told us quite a few interesting things. I don’t know if we should believe everything he says, but… something in me says he’s telling the truth. Even if sometimes I don’t want him to be.

He says he can’t come over often because of the police and Elias. Who apparently has supernatural powers? Great to have a boss who can creep on me whenever he likes. I’m getting off topic. Gerry seemed quite interested in Michael when I told him who had warned Martin about how to kill the worms. I tried to get him to tell me something about Star-Man in return, but he just laughed me off and said the guy would tell me himself if he wanted to.

Which leaves me going through statements to figure out his identity. Tim says he thinks he remembers reading a statement that reminds him of Star-Man, so that’s at least two. Even if he – and Gerry, probably – aren’t human, they saved us. They’re also less unnerving than Michael, even if this statement was hardly comforting. I don’t know what they want or if we can trust them, but I have a feeling we’re going to need all the help we can get in the future. Jane Prentiss doesn’t appear to be an anomaly. 

End Recording.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gerry: Yea, worms are kinda a lame evil hivemind.  
> Jon: Worms on a string: what crimes will they commit?  
> Gerry: What.  
> Jon: The potential for future memes is truly Vast.
> 
> Jon: oh this poor man must be so terrified that I’ve taken him here. Better offer a comforting smile at least.  
> Martin: everything’s so pretty I’m gonna die.
> 
> Sorry if the change in POV to Martin was a little jarring. I just thought those scenes would be more fun to experience through his eyes ;)
> 
> ALSO I cannot do esoteric math at all. So I will credit the explanation of Graham's number pretty much entirely to Wikipedia. Genuinely could not think of how to put it in my own words. I hate math and I did this to myself by making the statement be about it. It just fit so well. Sorry to anyone who knows what they're talking about if I said something incorrect about it; I tried my best.
> 
> Regarding Oliver still Becoming in the same manner as canon: You know the Doctor Who Van Gogh episode? How “The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good things or make them unimportant”? Yeah, that. There’s a lot of that in this fic.


	6. Red Dwarf

Choosing to confront the Distortion with Gerry is probably insane, but Jon would be damned before he lets him do it alone.

Jon has known that Gertrude’s assistants had all met untimely ends – although not necessarily at her hands, in the case of Gerry’s father – but didn’t know any specifics. As it turns out, one of Gertrude’s archival assistants lives on. In a sense.

Michael Shelley died when he merged with the Distortion. But the fact that the Distortion apparently goes by the name “Michael” is telling. It is incredibly unusual that a human fused with a previously existing avatar of a fear. Particularly since it was the sort of avatar that was never human previously. It seems that Michael Shelley had a fairly large impact on the manifestation of the Spiral, going by the name and the stalking of those working in the Archives.

While the case of Michael is interesting from afar, Jon has no interest in observing it up close. His previous experience with the Spiral lets him know that you very rarely come out of a meeting with straight answers. Straight answers are, in fact, antithetical to it. It is incredibly frustrating.

But Gerry wants to talk to it. It’s not surprising that he feels a connection to one of Gertrude’s previous assistants. Especially the one that arguably met the worst end. That doesn’t mean Jon is thrilled to seek out one of the most infamous manifestations of the Spiral. Most of the avatars of fears are fairly generic. Lukases, Farichilds, the Lightless Flame Cult – their powers are fairly uniform, and while dangerous, most don’t stand out from others of the same patron. The Distortion is unique in its existence, and all the more powerful for it.

It’s doubtful that Jon and Gerry would even be able to find it if it didn’t want them to. But Gerry says that Michael seems fairly playful from what he’s gleamed from the Archivist and Martin. Maliciously playful, of course, but seems willing to engage in situations that would be interesting to it. 

Jon can’t help but think the only other surviving assistant of Gertrude Robinson would be considered interesting to it.

Previously, the Distortion would only occasionally appear around the UK; it was definitely not localized to any part of the world. Since its begun interacting with the new Archival crew, it has been occurring increasingly often in England, particularly around London. 

Gerry had asked the Archivist to tell him if there are any patterns to its appearance. Since he asked, there have been repeated sightings around Somerset. He and Gerry take a map and chart the appearances to see if they can’t predict the next one. They do more that locate a possible next appearance. They know where it’s clearly leading them to.

Of course, _of course_ , it’s Blobbyland. The abandoned theme park of the once ( _wrongly_ ) beloved TV character. Because why wouldn’t it be?

Jon had never liked Mr. Blobby. Jon hated his color scheme. The bright pink of his appropriately blobby body and the equally searing yellow dots painting him. His bulging googly green eyes are displeasing and his arching smile nothing less that psychotic. His distorted unintelligible voice grated on Jon’s ears. He caused chaos wherever he went and is utterly remorseless. 

Perhaps it’s not surprising the Distortion likes him. 

Gerry drives them to Somerset, glancing at Jon’s sulking form every so often.

“You know, you don’t have to come with me. I know you weren’t thrilled at the idea of finding Michael. And that was before your apparent childhood nemesis was brought into it.”

“My childhood nemesis was definitely Mr. Spider, not Mr. Blobby. Which I defeated. I can handle the abandoned theme park of a terrible television character some horrid corporate creative came up with.”

Gerry hums in response and doesn’t push Jon on it. His lack of faith is truly insulting. Even if Jon’s hours long rant and PowerPoint presentation on why Mr. Blobby is an abomination upon this earth probably didn’t help.

They eventually enter a wooded area the GPS indicates to them and park in a grassy lot. He and Gerry follow an abandoned train track where a small child’s train ride is forever stopped and left to rust. They eventually reach a small tunnel leading further into the park. The structures inside are overgrown with the surrounding forest. Once oversaturated colors faded with time and neglect. 

Besides buildings, what were once likely decorations or fun shapes placed at the edges of the area are so over-run with flora that Jon can’t tell what they were meant to be. He peers closely at a faded pastel shape and thinks he may be able to make discern what it is. He blinks. It looks completely different. He feels a slight headache begin to pound behind his eyes. 

Yes, that sounds about right.

“It’s in here,” Gerry says. Of course, he’s pointing to Mr. Blobby’s house. 

Or, what Jon assumes is his house. A word is painted on the arch over the doorway. Some letters are faded and a bit hard to read, but Jon thinks it says _BUNBLOBBIN_ or _DUNBLOBBIN_. Jon had not watched Noel’s House Party often enough as a child to know if that was correct or the Spiral attempting to give him a stroke. 

The entrance is luckily an open circle. Gerry had given him strict instructions not to open any doors before he gives the okay. Jon likes to think that he’d be able to distinguish the Distortion’s door from a regular one, but concedes easily enough.

He follows behind Gerry under the arch of the entranceway. The wall immediately in front of them has a painted-on door, which Jon squints suspiciously at. It doesn’t look in danger of opening so they continue past, although Jon experiences a paranoid tingle when his back turns to it.

The inside of the building is in obvious disrepair. The faint smell of rot permeates it; likely from the many open entrances that allows for rain to fall through and form small puddles. Detritus and dirt litter the floor and crunch beneath their shoes. There is no furniture left on the ground. Although there are three large viewing glasses in the wall that look into small rooms that likely once held props, or perhaps a mascot of Mr. Blobby or one of the other characters from the show. They’re empty now and the walls inside peeling.

Mirrors hang in the next room, two cracked and one intact. A half smashed mushroom top or something similar sits broken on the ground. Gerry kicks a large chunk of broken ceramic and Jon nearly jumps. He hisses at him and Gerry puts his hands up in defense, although the tenseness of his body doesn’t let Jon believe he’s as relaxed as he wants Jon to think.

The second room segues into a much larger one. There’s more broken junk on the floor of this room. The ceiling arches up in several places and remains intact, where the last one had its rafters showing. Support beams stand connecting the floor and ceiling in several places. Some window panes sit leaning on the walls next to the actual windows. 

Horrifically, the face of Mr. Blobby extends out of one of the faded pink walls. It’s made of the same ceramic or clay material as the building. It’s curiously tan instead of his usual searing colors. The face is distorted by its large yawning mouth. It’s big enough to easily swallow children or even smaller sized adults. The pitch-black entrance is more than a bit ominous. Jon nearly yanks Gerry back when the idiot ducks his head to peer inside.

“There’s a small room in here, but it’s empty. Weird that it led us to a place that doesn’t seem to have any real doors.”

“Yes, the Spiral’s lot are just bastions of logic, aren’t they?”

“Alright, no need to get shirty.”

They poke around the room for a bit, but don’t find anything in particular. Gerry seems to be on the verge of trying to draw a door on a wall himself if it’ll get his quarry to show up. Even if he’s not trying to hunt Michael to destroy it, he’s still getting visibly testy at an unfulfilled pursuit. Jon thinks he sees more than one of the slit pupils of the tattooed eyes rove around in search.

Thinking of the painted door they encountered when first entering the building, Jon turns back to go take another look. With the way things are going, it will be gone, or a different color, or slightly opened, or some other nonsense.

He does not acknowledge the unease or subtle dread that underlies the sardonic thought.

Jon enters the previous room and looks absently at the broken mirrors. His image is reflected back in fractals, distorted by the spiderwebbed cracks so that he is almost entirely abstract. His gaze wanders over to the still whole mirror as he reaches the middle of the room.

A searing pink form stares back at him. So bright that the artificial flavor of fruity bubblegum left in the sun to melt chokes the back of his throat. The sunny yellow dots littering its body pierce his eyes and make him dizzy as they move around in mesmerizing patterns. Mr. Blobby’s yellow bowtie snakes around its stunted neck as if trying to choke it. Its curving bright red smile loops up above its head as it greets him with a toothy grin. Green eyes bulge out of their sockets until they _pop_ and fly through the air to land rolling at Jon’s feet. One gently hits his shoe and leaves behind a bleeding smear of green.

From the room they first entered in, a cartoonish pink fist smashes through the glass of one of the viewing windows.

“ ** _BloBbY_** _!_ ”

“ _FUCK_ ,” Jon screams and nearly teleports out of the room with how far he jumps. 

His feet don’t quite touch the ground as he leaps back into the large room where Gerry is glaring at one of the walls. He startles and turns to Jon, eyes roving wildly as he begins moving towards him protectively.

“Jon! What—”

The creak of a door opening

 _Hahaha (hehehe) haha_ a rasping sigh _ha. Oh, you really are quite fun, aren’t you_?

The last of the echoing creak fades.

From the darkness of Mr. Blobby’s yawning mouth, short pale legs emerge. For a heart stopping moment Jon imagines thousands of spiders pouring from the black. Then the spider legs resolve into long spindly fingers. An inhumanly large hand grasps the upper edge of the mouth. A long leg emerges next from the shadows, with a torso and head not far behind.

Or, charitably a leg, torso, and head. The leg bends in too many places, clad in vertically striped pants that smell of indigo and twist together like writhing snakes. The torso looks like something cut out from an ‘80s magazine – literally. The glossy paper of a magazine displays the picture of a shirt full of ruffles under a garishly bright blazer. Its edges are neatly cut, although a slip of the scissors caused a slice to cut through the upper right shoulder. Superimposed on the magazine clipping is the head.

It’s like looking at a 3D movie or image without wearing the appropriate glasses. The head is in subtle triplicate, blurring so that three heads outlined in different neon colors exist with a small margin between their overlap. They imply movement and confuse the eye. He does not know which mouth or eye or ear to look at. The grin is the same as Mr. Blobby’s, reaching through its cheeks and above its eyes. It extends into its tendrils of bright yellow hair. Curls furl and unfurl around it in a halo of static and sunrays and a child’s crayon drawing. Jon can half hear the hair as much as he sees it.

The head moves and Jon nearly keels over in a rush of vertigo very different than the one Mike can afflict. His feet finally hit the ground. Eyes flick to him. One is showing a rerun of Noel’s House Party.

_Hello, Philosopher. I really am so pleased to meet you. I am_

_ (HA) _

_a fan of your work._

Jon smells the shape of his own mind and his stars sing in his ears, but the sound of his hated moniker makes him spit out around flower petals, “That’s not. Not my name. And I, I hardly see. Seeeee. See how anything I do is of interest to you.”

_No? But oh, Philosopher, doesn’t infinity engender such a wonderful dose of unreality? Humans can’t understand the infinite after all; all they know is finite. Making them think of all those Vast concepts of yours…_

**_…._ **

**_…._ **

Michael looms over him

_How could you expect them not to break?_

It _sighs_ and Jon wonders if his eyes are bleeding.

_Not to mention the hypotheticals. Are you trying to court the Spiral’s interest, talking of infinitely spiraling and branching hypotheticals as you do?_

_NaUghTY, nAUgHty PHILOSOPHER_

Jon staggers back drunkenly. Moths flutter around his face and tap along his arms, leaving static in their wake. He hits something solid. It could be a wall, or the floor, or the ceiling, or a door, or a—

It’s Gerry’s chest. His hands grip Jon’s shoulders and he’s pulled around so that he’s facing Gerry instead of the Distortion. Jon stares blankly at the dark shirt in front of him. He blinks. The darkness is alive with fractals.

“Hello, Michael.”

_Ohhhh_

HM

_Gerard Keay. I see the Eye is seeing you well._

_HA HA HA_

“Not only Beholding. Although it does help in finding what I’m looking for. Not that I think it’d be much help in finding you.”

_Yes. It does not like to turn its gaze upon me. It oh so hates not being sure of what it sees._

“I’m up to trash talk the Eye whenever you want. I’d like to get to what I came here for, though. That stunt you just pulled with Jon hasn’t left me in the best mood.”

_So protective. Are you always to be a guard dog? He’s at least a nicer master isn’t he_

Jon can hear the vicious grin in his voice, “I suppose you want to get to it too, don’t you? I thought so, since you’ve been hanging around Sasha and the others. The old woman’s not very easy to get over, is she?”

A noise Jon vaguely interprets as displeasure. Gerry makes a soft but shaky sound and does his best not to let his sharp nailed grasp dig into Jon. Jon does his best to keep Gerry steady and determinedly does not look behind him.

Then it stops. 

_Did you come here to share feelings? Wish to knit up the hole she left in your heart?_ _Michael was very good at knitting_

_And I have so many wonderful things I could knit you with._

“I think braiding each other’s hair is at least for when we start having sleepovers. I do want to see you again. I didn’t know you before you became the Distortion, but that doesn’t mean I’m not pissed about what Gertrude did to you. You deserved better. As the last two people alive who trusted Gertrude Robinson and got fucked over by her for it, I figured we could start an exclusive club. Hang out. Could get jackets or something, if you can wear real clothes.”

Pause

_That is very foolish…_

_I am no longer the human who was the Archivist’s assistant._

“Neither am I. Doesn’t mean we don’t have a few things in common. You could come over sometime and watch football. You seem like you’d be a big fan.”

_Ha_

It laughs but something in its tone seems uncertain this time. It’s hardly noticeable, but Jon catches it, having been relying solely on his ears to follow the conversation.

_We’ll see if you regret your choices, Gerard Keay._

“Call me Gerry.”

The color lime

A door creaking closed.

Jon feels relief pour through him. It’s preemptive. 

In his left ear:

_Goodbye, Philosopher._

_It was simply delightful to meet you._

In his right:

_It will be most exciting to see you again._

_Keep up the good work!_

And it’s gone.

Jon and Gerry both nearly collapse at the loss of buzzing in the air. Jon pulls back and opens his eyes to stare accusingly at his friend.

“Hey, I didn’t know it was a fan. You shouldn’t be so irresistible, Jon.”

Jon hits him halfheartedly, “I have been cursed to have my life filled with people who want to torture me.”

“Well, I can’t say that’s not where the Distortion’s tastes tend to run. Don’t think that’s what your grim reaper wants, though. Pretty sure he’s made some noises about a lack of cuddling. Not to mention M—”

Jon hits him harder this time. But the tension is broken and they stagger together out of the house, Gerry putting himself between Jon and the mirror and the apparently unbroken viewing window. They follow the railroad track back, although it now loops and swirls in places. The train is upside down and strung along the treetops. Luckily, they make it out of the woods and to their car without further incident.

“You know,” Jon says on the way back to London, glasses pushed into his hair and hand pressed against his eyes in an attempt to combat his throbbing migraine, “my powers have nothing in common with the Spiral. They’re not similar whatsoever. Michael truly is the throat of delusion and lies.” 

“Sure, Jon.”

* * *

“The Distortion, hm? And you just met to Archivist recently too. Looking to form a gang of the most dangerous avatars, Jonny? Make sure to invite Mike to it. He’ll feel left out otherwise.”

“Leave me to my misery, Simon.”

* * *

Mike blows out a wisp of smoke that takes the form of a skydiver. They float down in a gentle freefall until they hit the reflective layer of water and disperse. His skills really have grown over the years. When they had first done this, he could barely make an apple or the sun.

Jon and Mike sit next to each other on Jon’s dock. It’s a familiar position. They don’t always speak when they spend time together like this, but today Mike is downright chatty compared to normal.

“You alright after Jude went after you?”

“Yes, thanks ever so much for the help you did not provide. She wasn’t particularly thrilled that I helped out the new Archivist, but hearing that Gertrude was shot dead calmed her down well enough. Honestly, she was hardly likely to do anything to actually harm me between my association with the Fairchilds and Gerry. It was just a bit hard to remember that in the moment.”

“She said you ran like a bitch.”

“I’m just thrilled to hear you talked to her about this before me.”

“We already had plans to meet up for coffee. Bit weird since she doesn’t really eat or drink, but I don’t care enough to ask. There’s apparently a Hunter, not yours, that’s gone after the Desolation avatars lately. Seems to have caught one of their scents. Watching Jude on a warpath against another person is always funny.”

“Jude Perry is an objectively reprehensible person and nothing she does holds any comedic value. Joy taken from her bellicose and execrable behavior is enjoyment misbegotten.”

“Now, I know you said it like that to annoy me, but I’m still annoyed.”

“I do not know of what you speak, Michael. Your thought process if beyond my ken.”

Mike waves him off and blows another smoke construct. 

Jon allows himself a small chuckle and stretches. He winces at the slight pain in his shoulder. The stab wound he received from the Slaughter avatar in Barcelona still aches every so often in remembered pain. It’s easy to heal from anything other than wounds inflicted by other avatars. Even years later, the pain and fear of when it was inflicted lingers like an infected wound. 

It doesn’t act up that often, luckily. Still, it prompts Jon to look up to the constellation of the Mad Mercenary with narrowed eyes. 

“You know, for all that you’re basically a vegan avatar, turning your enemies into constellations to decorate your Domain is pretty brutal,” Mike observes, following Jon’s line of sight.

“You say that like it’s something I do often. I’m not actively doing it either; it seems to be a natural process when someone gets trapped here for too long. Also, I’m actually quite fond of meat, despite the existence of the Flesh.”

“There have been a few,” Mike replies, ignoring Jon’s last statement.

“They’ve all been trying to kill me! Or Gerry.”

“And yet, somehow people still underestimate you. Jude genuinely won’t believe me when I tell her this is something you do.”

“I’ve only trapped five avatars in my Domain. Stop making me sound like some sort of serial killer. Only one’s been from the UK, so it’s unsurprising most of the avatars here haven’t heard, as they don’t tend to pay attention to other areas overmuch. I would also love to stop talking about Jude Perry.”

Local avatars that participate in the England’s “fear community” don’t tend to attack Fairchilds or Vast avatars associated with them. Not if they don’t want an unnecessarily large amount of trouble to come down on their heads. This mentality, of course, does not apply to lone avatars, or Hunters generally. 

The Buried avatar Gerry and he had run into in Manchester falls in this latter category. Jon hates having a stereotypical “cats and dogs” relationship with anything, but that really is what it’s like when the Vast encounters the Buried. Except in the rare case of a Sea-Buried, which tends to be an odd situation all around.

Mike and he both look to the Mountain Goliath where it looms in its corner of the sky. Mike gives a reflexive appreciative nod. 

“I’ve heard that you’ve managed to catch the attention of the Distortion. And only a short while after you stuck your nose into the Archive. It’s impressive how you can make my life choices seem perfectly well adjusted,” Mike says after a few more moments of quiet. 

“I never knew how good I had it before Michael invaded my life. I would say he’s using me purely as a distraction to deal with Gerry’s Hunt for Friendship, but trying to nail down the motivations of a Spiral avatar is a fool’s game.”

“Well at least you have enough common sense to be wary of the Spiral.”

“ _Why_ would you think I’d _ever_ want anything to do _the Distortion_?”

“Honestly, it seems like most of your actions are tailor made to have the Fairchild clan clutching at their pearls. I don’t interact with them outside of Simon, and Harriet occasionally, nearly as much as you, and you’re still more of a black sheep than me.”

“Well, it’s not as if I really belong with them. Most of them have been quite explicit in letting me know that I’m a rather poor avatar of the Vast, for only half-heartedly feeding our god where I should give myself over entirely to it. It’s not that I don’t lo… well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. I know you think similarly to them.”

When no response comes, Jon looks over to see Mike’s face has taken on a contemplative cast.

He speaks slowly, “I chose the Vast because the only other option was falling to the monster that had chased me most of my life. If it had been the other way around, and the Vast had been stalking me and there was only a Spiral Leitner between me and it, then maybe I’d be a part of the Twisting Deceit. I remember that, for a moment, I was terrified as I jumped with _Ex Altiora_ in my hands. I can’t imagine why now, but… do I belong any more than you?”

“You haven’t seemed unsure in all the time I’ve known you.”

“Because I had decided that I couldn’t afford to be once I found a god that actually spoke to me. I went through three other Leitners before the one I claimed. I couldn’t even care much when _A Journal of the Plague Year_ consumed my parents when I was a teenager, focused as I was on finding an escape. I don’t understand how you care about complete _strangers_. Especially when I know, just sitting here, that you love the Vast as much as anyone else can. Maybe most of the Fairchilds really do believe you’re a shite avatar, but more than anything I think they just don’t understand you.”

“Like you don’t.”

“Yeah, well, you _are_ only getting weirder as time goes on. Your taste in friends, as you’d say, ‘ _leaves something to be desired’_ ,” Mike mocks in a voice that sounds nothing like Jon’s,

“At least I have friends that aren’t complete psychopaths.”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about Jude anymore.”

Jon glares at Mike’s slightly smirking face. Mike stands up from his sitting position on the edge of the dock and offers Jon a hand, which he accepts. Mike’s hands are cool and dry. They lack Gerry’s callouses and are a bit smaller than Jon’s. 

“C’mon. We always go to your Domain. Why don’t we ever go to mine?”

“Because yours is a perpetual freefall through the sky.”

“Don’t act like you don’t like it,” Mike says and begins to tip back. Jon doesn’t try to fight the fall.

Mike pulls Jon down and they’re flying down through a sky rather different than Jon’s. Bright blue surrounds them in an endless swath, broken up only by the contrasting white of clouds. They fall into one and Jon is lightly misted in water, although the condensation is quickly whipped away by the wind.

Jon isn’t fully adapted to the vertigo of falling like Mike is, but falling and flying aren’t so different when there is no ground to hit, and this type of experience is exhilarating for any sky aspect Vast avatar.

A laugh triumphs over the faint nausea in his stomach and Mike glances down at him with a genuine smile. Jon metaphysically reaches out and tugs. 

Faint stars now dot the duskier blue of the sky, some in the far distance and some close enough to touch. A few intermingle with the clouds, setting them aglow with an inner light.

Mike swoops down to bat at him for the presumption. But he doesn’t seem truly bothered. Jon continues to allow gravity to have effect, hair whipping above him in a long swirl that will likely later be an incredibly tangled, and laughter stolen from his lips by the rushing wind. 

His Domain is better, of course. But perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to visit Mike’s every so often. 

* * *

Jon is grocery shopping one weekend when he looks up and locks gazes with who he has been informed is Martin Blackwood. They both freeze and look at each other with wide eyes.

A flash of the man reverently calling him beautiful pops into his mind. He angrily bats it away. Surely, that was a moment of insanity brought on by the combined stress of Jane Prentiss’ attack, being pulled into Jon’s domain, and CO2. 

Surely, now that he’s had time to reflect, Martin has realized how horrifying it is that Jon was able to easily pull him into another plain of existence. How terrifying his infinite night sky is beneath its overwhelming beauty. How monstrous Jon is. Especially considering Gerry’s warned him the Archivist seems keen on learning more about him and has surely been digging around for statements; of which Elias had told him years ago there are numerous.

He’ll hardly blame Martin when he beats a hasty retreat. It’s only sane for a normal human who only recently learned they were unknowingly recruited into being the assistant of a fear god’s avatar to react negatively. Jon will accept it gracefully and not mention it if they cross paths again.

Martin’s cheeks flush a rosy red as he gives Jon a shy smile and a wave. He looks very soft and sincere and not at all afraid of Jon.

Jon drops the milk he’s holding.

He throws some change on the check out to cover it as he leaves the building. He isn’t running away; he just realized he doesn’t need to go grocery shopping. He’ll just order food to his apartment and never leave it again. 

* * *

“Good morning, Starshine. Pluto says hello.”

Jon snorts, “Clever.” As he works through the shiver the other man’s presence now brings.

Oliver grins up at Jon where he’s sitting on the balcony of his apartment, legs dangling between the bars of the balustrade that lines it. Oliver stands on the balcony below. Jon doesn’t bother asking him how he got there.

“Congratulations again on saving the new Archivist and her assistants. Between her and Gerry Keay, you’re shaping up to be quite the hero.”

“I didn’t save them. Gerry still had to die in a way to become an avatar. And even you don’t know if the vines were heralding the Archivist’s death via Jane Prentiss’ disgusting worms or something else,” Jon says, awkwardly fiddling with the spray bottle he uses to water the plants littering his balcony. 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Everyone dies one way or another. Do you suppose you’ll encourage the Archivist to go the same way you encouraged your Hunter, or do you think a true death would be kinder?”

“Maybe she won’t have to make that choice!” Jon snaps, the shape of the bottle’s handle indenting into his skin as his hands clench, “She seems intelligent, from what Gerry has told me. Maybe she’ll find a way out.”

“You know intelligence has nothing to do with it. And we all have to make a choice. It’s all about choice.”

“It’s not much of a choice we got, is it.”

“Just because sometimes there are only bad choices, doesn’t mean it wasn’t a choice.”

“And how much worth is there in a choice you didn’t know you were making? Or were twisted to the point there didn’t seem to be any other choice to make? What kind of death were you choosing, Oliver, and did it even matter?”

Oliver’s face has slid into unreadability. He asks, “do you think it matters, Jon?”

Jon makes a frustrated noise in his throat and turns his head to look out across the rooftops instead of at the other man.

Oliver cajoles, “Don’t be mad. Here, I brought you breakfast, since you still need to eat human food. I suppose I can’t throw stones considering I don’t need to actively do anything to feed. That’s fairly in line with my patron, though.”

A delicious savory smell wafts up to meet Jon’s nose. His eyes unconsciously track the smell to its source. His lips curl in a sneer, “What. Is _that_?”

“Quite useful, isn’t it? And so cheap too!”

The bag of food containing whatever is making that heavenly smell is bobbing to the side of Jon’s dangling right leg. The bag wrinkles where the plastic teeth of a cartoonish t-rex head bites down onto it. The head is attached to a garishly bright plastic pole which extends down into a handle grasped in a dark hand. 

Oliver smiles shamelessly at him, “I’d grab it fast. While cheapness is a virtue, it also has its detriments. I don’t know how long Ferdinand’s jaw’s grip strength will last.”

Jon is incredibly tempted to let the bag of food fall to its terminal end. But the saliva already pooling in his mouth makes its waste too tragic. He reaches his hand between the bars and snatches the bag up. He stands and strides inside his apartment, closing the doors decidedly behind him.

He returns a minute later, dropping down the disgustingly bitter dark chocolate Oliver favors into ( _cockily!_ ) waiting hands and spins around to close the balcony door a final time, then proceeds eats his breakfast. 

It’s delicious. He’ll have to ask Oliver where he bought it later.

* * *

“Wait, take this with you,” Jon says as Gerry gets ready to go to the Archives. He’s at Jon’s apartment more often than not, considering he’s typically on the road for a hunt and only uses his own apartment as a place to crash.

Gerry raises an eyebrow and takes the stack of papers Jon is holding out to him. They’re copies of a carefully worded survey. Questions include the qualifications needed to hold positions of power in the Institute, the quality of employee’s experiences with HR, whether or not they feel safe at their job, the capacity to communicate effectively with upper management, and several more.

The questions are crafted so that while they’re not leading, they are pointed in the fact that they’re even being asked at all. It’s an opening shot in Jon’s possible campaign to cause insurrection in the Magnus Institute. He has to ascertain the general attitude of the institute workers first to know how viable his vague plan is, but he can also plant the seeds of rebellion while he’s at it.

Working in various parts of Fairchild Inc. over the years, Jon has learned there’s certain dangers in working with the uninitiated when you can’t afford to run through replacements. People talk, and less and less qualified individuals will apply to a job if it seems too dangerous or unattractive. Some of the Farichilds’ businesses can take that sort of gamble, but enterprises like Pinnacle Aerospace can only handle Jon giving so many scientists minor breakdowns. Similarly, the Magnus Institute is unlikely to be able to continue to run as it does if a mass amount of personnel quit, considering its lack of social clout combined with sensitive departments such as artifact storage. The Archive can’t exist alone with how Jonah Magnus founded his institution. 

If Elias wants to play a bureaucrat, then Jon will give him a bureaucratic nightmare. His experiences of working in fear avatar owned corporate hells has to come in handy somehow. Even if Elias’ quasi-omniscience will be a tricky factor to combat. 

“Jon, you truly are one of a kind,” Gerry laughs as he grabs a bag to put the surveys in, “Who in the world thinks of going after an avatar by sending his employees mildly inflammatory surveys?”

“Someone who wants said avatar to suffer.”

“Haven’t you only met Elias the once before the Jane Prentiss incident?”

“And that was enough. Not to mention, he has a _thing_ with _Peter Lukas_.”

“Now that is a grave sin.”

“Yes.”

“Think it’ll work?”

“I can’t say for sure. He’s probably not expecting it, so that will help. You’ll have to find someone of good standing to distribute it, though, if we want people to take it seriously.”

“I’ll ask Tim. He seems to know just about everyone working there, and can probably charm whoever fits best. Don’t know if he’d be willing to take anything from me, though. He might sit on it for a while.”

“That’s fine. Then it’s like a ticking time bomb hidden in Elias’ own seat of power.”

“A ticking time bomb of workplace discontent. I don’t know how he’ll survive it.”

“You always say you sometimes have to get creative to beat an avatar,” Jon quips as he gets his own stuff together to head out.

They banter for a bit longer before leaving the apartment. Jon feels heady anticipation ( _combined with a churning nervousness he’ll never completely be rid of_ ) for his upcoming battle with Elias. Even beyond his personal dislike of the man, whatever reasons he has for keeping the Archival crew in the dark can’t be good. Frankly, allowing them to be attacked like that has cemented his poor impression of the Eye avatar, even moreso than his dalliance with Jon’s least favorite Lukas. And that’s saying something. 

* * *

News about the Archivist, Sasha, and her assistants, Martin and Tim, has been coming in a fairly regular stream to Jon. Not only from Gerry, who still tries to claim that he is only trying to correct their appalling ignorance and has no emotional investment at all. Michael, the absolute pest, will also make cryptic comments about them when the creaking of its stupid door heralds its unfortunate presence. The weirdly spicy-sweet taste of some sort of candy aching in Jon’s back teeth also lets Jon know when the Distortion arrives. He is not a fan of how it messes with his senses. 

While Jon hates to admit that anything Michael says has any more meaning to him than the static of a radio that’s lost its connection, his meandering musings about the similarities between the old Archivist and the new poke at Jon’s worry for Gerry. Honestly, Gerry is a fairly good judge of character and seems cautiously optimistic about Sasha’s relationship with her assistants. Which is good. He doesn’t know much about Tim, but from what little he knows of Martin, the man certainly doesn’t deserve a Gertrude Robinson.

But Gerry also is a good person and wouldn’t let the Archival crew wallow in the ignorance Elias seems to want them to stay in. Even if he logically knows that Sasha is unlikely to be able to burn Gerry, Jon still can’t help but worry about the type of person she is and Gerry’s safety ( _emotional more than physical_ ).

So, Jon decides to visit her. He’s a bit uncomfortable going to her apartment, but Jon has no interest in visiting the Archivist in the Eye’s Temple where Elias will undoubtedly notice his presence in an instant. Outside of an emergency, of course. Perhaps if they prove to be compatible personality-wise. Jon doesn’t get along overly well with the majority of avatars, but Sasha doesn’t seem to be a normal one. Or even know that she’s meant to be an avatar, which Jon can sympathize with.

Gerry has said she’s been increasingly asking after him, anyway. He also said Martin is the keenest of them, but, well, Jon supposes that’s only expected considering he saw Jon’s Domain. Jon has had to reassess Martin’s feelings after their ( _unfortunate for Jon’s pride_ ) encounter in the store, and he has come to the conclusion that his version of Salar de Uyuni enthralled the other man. Jon tries not to be arrogant, but his domain truly is awe-inspiring. Who wouldn’t want to see it again? He’s sure he’s only collateral to that. 

But, Sasha. Jon will meet her and assess what kind of person she is. He doesn’t know exactly what he’ll do if he thinks she’s a danger to Gerry like Michael has alluded to, but he’s fairly hopeful that won’t be the case. Maybe he can tell her a few things he thought would have been useful to know when he first started actively interacting with the Entities. Eye aligned _are_ supposed to be curious. 

Jon makes his way to the apartment Gerry had instinctually tracked Sasha to. The Hunt avatar had been deeply embarrassed when he told Jon about his accidental stalking, but it had at least given Jon an address when he asked where exactly Gerry had ended up. 

He knocks firmly against the door and waits. A minute goes by until he hears someone approaching the door. The door is pulled open and the Archivist, Sasha James, peers owlishly at him.

She scrambles back down the hallway, leaving the door open behind her.

“Um,” Jon says.

Should he leave? Is she scared of him? But she didn’t close the door? And he came to make sure Gerry is safe associating with her ( _well, safe from her own machinations at least; associating with Archivists is hardly safe_ ) so he can’t just leave.

Jon gingerly steps into the house and closes the door behind him. He doesn’t lock it, just in case she took that as locking him in with her. He makes his way down the hallway - having a moment of extreme displeasure at not being able to take off his shoes because that would likely be unfathomably weird - and into a nicely decorated living room.

Sasha stands with a baseball bat in her hands. Her hands are sure around it, but she is full of nervous tension as she stares intensely at Jon. Jon opens his mouth to assure her he’s not here to attack her. He doesn’t get the chance.

“Tell me your story,” Sasha compels, with the sound of a tape recorder clicking on in the background.

Jon does. He tells her about his childhood in Bournemouth. How the sea and stars became his only comforts. His encounter with a strange old man when he was six and feeding the ocean a Leitner when he was eight. He weaves a story up to his second meeting with Simon, when he finds out his destiny to become an Avatar of the Vast. How he still struggles with his role as someone who brings fear and harm to others.

When his voice is abruptly back under his control, he asks, “Do you think it’s possible to record the statement of every person who has had an encounter with the Entities?”

Sasha ends up diving for a notebook and pen, mumbling about false statements and multiple encounters and the like. Numbers are written down and scribbled out just as fast.

Jon takes a minute to fully process what it feels like for an Archivist to compel a statement from you. It’s a bit odd, and not particularly enjoyable. He doesn’t mind too much though; he’s hardly much better. 

This being said, he obligingly coaxes Sasha out of the thinking spiral he had accidently sent her into. Mostly accidently. Considering she had mostly-accidently compelled him first, they decide to call it even.

“Well, if that didn’t scare you off, do you mind answering some questions? It’d be nice to get another perspective besides Gerry’s. I promise not to hypnotize you, or whatever it is I do. Oh and, uh, what’s your name? We’ve been calling you Star-Man.”

“Star-Man? Really?” he sighs, “I’m Jonathan Sims. Please, call me Jon.”

She offers Jon a glass of some whisky she has lying around. The buzz of compulsion still vaguely stirs at the back of his mind, so he accepts. One glass turns to two as they chat about the weird reality they share. She’s clearly not as used to it as Jon. While he’s sympathetic to the thinly veiled fear she has for her predicament, her honest unsurety and worry for her and her two friends soothes Jon’s own worry for Gerry. 

( _Jon is only a casually interested when she talks about Martin_ )

He doesn’t begrudge her the need to break out a second bottle the longer they talk. He probably could have done with getting black-out drunk upon finding out that the world is menaced by fear gods. Unfortunately, he was a bit too young for that at the time. Although, thinking about it, Simon definitely would have given him alcohol had he asked. The old man doesn’t have a responsible bone in his body.

Eventually, Sasha ends up starfished on her couch. She has been giggling intermittedly to herself, cradling the whisky bottle to her chest. Jon is curled up in her armchair, his head lolling against its back. He’s not nearly as drunk as Sasha. He is basically her mentor in this avatar business; he has to stay respectable.

“You know what’s really Vast, Sasha? My depression.”

“Oh, same,” she immediately answers.

Then she springs up from her sprawled position on the sofa, blinking owlishly at Jon, “Wait, Jon, are you around the same age as me?”

“Do you think Mike loves the color of the sky?” Jon slurs back, pawing at his cellphone.

“I don’t know who Mike is, but assuming he’s another Vast avatar, you should definitely ask him.”

Jon nods at this confirmation and hits Mike’s contact.

Mike does not answer his question. Despite the fact that it should really be an easy yes, considering how his whole thing is sending people plummeting through the sky. Sasha is cackling as Mike hangs up on him. She passes Jon the bottle to stop him from pouting at the blank screen.

“Do you want to hear about all the subcategories of the Filth? It’s really more complex than such a gross Entity needs to be.”

“Only if you let me record it,” she replies and grabs for a tape Jon hadn’t noticed wedged into the side of the couch.

Sasha is truly friendship material.

* * *

The next morning Jon awakes to a pounding on the door that matches the pounding in his skull. When it doesn’t abate, he staggers off the couch and wrenches open the door with a blistering glare.

There’s a man he vaguely recognizes as being the not-Marin archival assistant. He has a moment of absolute confusion wondering what in the world he’s doing pounding at Jon’s apartment door, before realizing that this isn’t Jon’s apartment.

Tim blinks in surprise at Jon, before harshly pushing him aside and yelling for Sasha as he storms into the apartment. Jon stares vaguely after him but figures that was probably an understandable response to finding a random avatar opening the door to your friend’s home.

“ _Whaaaaat_ ,” Jon hears Sasha moan sleepily. 

Jon eyes the door, but he had taken off his shoes in Sasha’s living room and he needs to go back to get them. He once again closes but doesn’t lock Sasha’s front door and shuffles back towards the commotion.

Tim is looking Sasha over where she’s still trying to curl into the couch, batting ineffectually at him. He glares at Jon when he sees him come in and Jon reflexively freezes. He’s not exactly afraid of Tim, but he’s uninterested in getting into a fight.

Plus, he thinks he and Sasha may have bonded a little last night? It’s hazy through the alcohol, but the sloppily braided piece of hair hitting the side of his face means that he didn’t imagine everything. So, he probably shouldn’t get into a situation where he’s forced to defend himself against Sasha’s friend right after they maybe-bonded.

( _Jon’s never imagined having more friends than he already has. Gerry by himself is more than he ever deserved. The thought of being able to have more, of cultivating something like a circle of friends…_

_There are few things that have seemed more impossible to him._

_But he shouldn’t get ahead to himself. Sasha not hating him is a few steps away from her wanting to be Jon’s friend. Even if they spent most of the night enthusiastically talking about anything they could think of and it was really fun._ )

Sasha slaps Tim’s hands away more firmly and finally sits up, glaring blurrily, “Jon’s fine, Tim. He came over to interrogate me about my intentions towards Gerry—”

“That is not what I—”

“—and I ended up doing my freaky voodoo on him. We got drunk and talked about all the weird shite going on. Turns out he got pulled into this ‘fear god’ business when he was a kid, so I guess we’re at least lucky we got to dodge it until now. Why are you here so early, anyway? I was trying to become one with the couch.”

“Well, we _have_ had a standing plan to have a day out to get away from all the spooky shite invading our lives. You didn’t tell me you were canceling so you could get drunk with one of said spooks.”

“Oh, point,” Sasha says apologetically, squeezing Tim’s arm and using him to pull herself up.

“We’ve needed a day off to relax for a while – I’m not backing out on you now. Just wait a mo’ while I get ready,” she says, disappearing into another hallway before calling back, “and lay off Jon!”

Does that mean Jon shouldn’t leave? He feels like there’s no reason for him to be here anymore, but maybe Sasha has something to ask him before he goes. 

Jon moves to lean against the wall of the living room. His fingers fiddle with the end of his now wrinkled shirt. He begins to pick at a loose thread and he does his level best to look anywhere but at the man glowering at him from further in the room.

The sound of water flows through the pipes of the building for a while before it’s shut off. Soon after Sasha comes bustling down the hallway in a towel with another towel wrapped around her hair. She opens the door to a room in sight of the living room; from what Jon can see it looks like her bedroom. Before she disappears again, she gives a pointed look at Tim that causes him to huff. The door is shut and Jon hopes that they can maintain the status quo until she comes back.

Unfortunately, that is not what happens. Tim walks closer to Jon with a faux-causal stride. He leans on the wall close to Jon’s position. His expression is less openly hostile than before, but the friendliness he musters up is obviously abrasive.

“No flower, I see. Shame. It was quite the fashion statement. Gave you a real dreamy aesthetic.”

“What?”

“Never mind, that’s not what I want to talk about. So, you afraid that we’re going to take advantage of your supernaturally strong monster friend? Martin must have made a hell of an impression on you; he certainly is a vicious one. May steep your tea for a minute longer than you prefer if you piss him off.”

“Martin seems like a perfectly fine person. I was not trying to protect Gerry’s _virtue_ , or whatever it is you think. The last Archivist was known to take advantage of people in order to meet her own ends. I was trying to see if Sasha is similar.”

“Don’t know how people get taken advantage of by an old woman who seemed a few years deep into dementia by how she left the Archives.”

“If you think truly that, you clearly know nothing of Gertrude Robinson.”

“Yeah, maybe, since the old lady was shot dead in some secret tunnels under our workplace and left to rot. Still don’t see why you’re so worried about a guy that’s already a monster.”

“If you have the right to be worried about your friend, then so do I,” Jon snaps.

Tim’s jaw works, but he switches tracks, “And you do that by going to her apartment instead of the place where we work?”

“That… yes, I did worry that was a bit aggressive, but I didn’t want to go to the Archives while not knowing if both Elias and the Archivist were against me.”

“Afraid of a little bureaucrat so bland he’s practically a piece of untoasted bread?”

“Elias,” Jon enunciates, “is a prick.”

Tim snorts, and it’s not wholly sardonic, “Yeah, you’re not completely wrong there. Especially if some of what wolf-man has said is right. And while I don’t trust you two on principle… I personally would have been worm food if it weren’t for him. Probably Sasha too. Martin said he wouldn’t have been able to make it to the CO2 without you. Elias sure as hell didn’t do shite to save us.”

“Those of Beholding usually prefer watching over action. That doesn’t make him not dangerous.”

And any softening Tim’s expression may have had is wiped away in an instant, “and what’s the MO of ‘the Vast’? I’ve read some of the statements you’re in. Hardly harmless yourself, are you?”

Jon doesn’t really have anything to say to that. His mouth is glued shut as he turns away from the other man. He can hear Tim huff. They return to a state of uneasy coexistence. The taller man doesn’t seem quite as hostile, but still supremely displeased with Jon’s presence. The sounds of a door opening stops Jon from trying to meld into the wall.

Sasha comes out of her bedroom in her underwear, holding two shirts. Despite it having been years, Jon reflexively falls into a routine he had with Georgie in his uni days.

“It’s going to be unseasonably cold today, so I’d wear a long-sleeved shirt. Or, maybe the one on the right with a coat.”

She looks pleased as she returns to her room. Jon doesn’t actually know which of the two shirts is better. Harriet forces expensive clothing on him periodically so people often mistake him for being fashionable. He’s also often mistaken for being older than he is, so there’s only a select group that accuses him of dressing stuffily. Jon finds that, like many things, if you act confident enough in your fashion choices people will believe you.

Jon glances over at the man next to him to see if he’ll call Jon’s bluff. He seems like he’d relish the opportunity to mock him. 

Tim is looking intently at him for some reason. More than advising Sasha about the weather and her clothing would call for. He hardly sees how that interaction could have made him angrier. Unless he wanted to give Sasha his opinion instead? 

Tim suddenly reaches for the buttons of his own shirt, slowly unbuttoning them. Once his shirt is hanging open, he shrugs it off with an exaggeration of his shoulders. He makes uncomfortably intense eye contact the entire time.

He flexes his arms as he leans on the wall next to Jon. Still making that eye contact. And not saying anything. Right.

“Are… you threatening me? I’m afraid I’m not quite sure what you’re trying to accomplish.”

Tim’s face does a dance as he runs through several emotions. Finally, he settles on breaking out into riotous guffaws. Jon has no clue what’s happening.

Sasha pokes her head out of her room to see Tim half-naked and laughing next to a confused Jon. She ties a ribbon in her still damp hair and says, “You’re the worst.”

Whatever has happened seems to have decreased Tim’s hostility towards Jon, at least. He’s still wary, but as Jon finally leaves Sasha’s apartment, he slaps Jon on the shoulder and says, “You’re alright, for a sky monster.”

When Tim and Sasha return to her apartment later that night and discover a tape of Jon drunkenly explaining and complaining about the Corruption, Tim’s good regard increases even further. Or, his estimation of Jon’s dangerousness decreases proportionally with the more teasing material he has.

When Jon grumbles about the encounter to Gerry later, the other man facepalms and laughingly says, “He was trying to seduce you, you dork!”

Jon feels his face heat up and defends himself to his friend. Tim had just looked like he wanted to punch Jon’s face in the moment before; how was he supposed to know he was flirting with him out of nowhere?

Privately, he admits it seems a bit obvious in retrospect.

“I’m not surprised you didn’t notice, though. Tim clearly isn’t the archival assistant you’re hoping to flirt with you.”

Jon throws his water at Gerry, and when the other man dodges, negates the water’s gravity so that he can move it to splash harmlessly against Gerry’s laughing face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sees a random dangerous monster in his friend’s house.  
> Tim: Is relieved when she’s fine but not thrilled when he finds out they’re being chummy. Is both jealous and worried that Jon stayed over.  
> Sasha comes out in underwear with no reaction from Jon  
> Tim: Is relieved that there doesn’t seem to be anything between them and that Jon isn’t giving the vibes of the regular man kind of monster. But is also kinda insulted because Sasha is hot? What, is she not good enough for you monster man?  
> Tim: But is he attracted to me though?  
> Tim is a man of multitudes. 
> 
> As a side-note, Jon calling Tim “not-Martin” was not an allusion to the not-Them, in case anyone was worried. The archival assistants were simply categorized as "Martin" and "the one that is not Martin" to Jon before meeting Tim.
> 
> Did I watch a video a while ago that featured Mr. Blobby and found him horrifying? Yes.  
> Did I find a video exploring the abandoned Blobbyland when I looked up abandoned theme parks in England and immediately decided Jon would hate him too? Yes.
> 
> Second to last chapter and everyone in the tags has finally appeared lol. Michael was a bitch to write, but his introduction had to be appropriately dramatic (and traumatic). We're powering through character interactions in these last few chapters, but be prepared for some introspection next chapter too. Funnily enough, I've had a few of the scenes in the last chapter written since the beginning. 
> 
> See you soon!


	7. Neutron Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a massive case of writers block, and grad school started back up on top of it, but I managed to finally get through the last few scenes I had to write! Thanks everyone for sticking with me! I'm particularly proud of a few scenes in this chapter, and wanting to share them with you motivated me to get the entire chapter done. I probably should have gone through a few more rounds of editing, but I wanted to finally get this out. 
> 
> I got beautiful fanart from drowsy_salamander on tumblr! It's beautiful watercolors and you should go admire it:  
> https://queenandswallowtail.tumblr.com/private/629114575817736192/tumblr_O5lmEgyEnI2Gs8uD8

“So, you are Michael? I am Michael too, if we are playing at names.”

“I go by Mike,” Mike says, already looking tired of dealing with the Distortion upon meeting it. Jon can relate.

Jon is fairly surprised Mike is willing to be within spitting distance of a rather infamous aspect of the Spiral, considering his past. He supposes it’s been a while since he was dogged by the Lightning Figure, and he got the best of it in the end, but Jon knows better than anyone how encountering an actively antagonistic aspect of an Entity as a child can deeply affect you.

He had repeatedly assured Mike that he didn’t need to come on this little escapade, but he blithely ignored everything Jon said. Well, at least Michael wasn’t at his most… _Distortion_ at the moment. It is more of a ‘he’ than an ‘it’ at the moment.

He looms over Mike’s short stature. His upper body curls over the other man, long strands of yellow corkscrew curls obscuring his face and spiraling down around Mike like vines hanging from a dense canopy. When the Vast avatar’s folded arms and unimpressed expression doesn’t change, Michael unconcernedly retreats. His chuckle only gives Jon the faint buzz of a fleeting headache instead of him forgetting what the color blue looks like.

The fabric of Michael’s obnoxiously ( _though not eye meltingly_ ) bright clothes wrinkle in accordance to natural laws as he slinks back over to Gerry. He dramatically throws himself on Gerry’s back and seems to ooze over his shoulders. 

Jon’s eyes reflexively narrow. Michael’s grin tauntingly glints back. Gerry ignores them both.

“I’d like to thank you all again for unnecessarily joining me on this hunt. When Sasha told me an aspect of the Dark was stirring up trouble, I never expected to have two other people besides the one I invited to come along. It is truly an honor.”

“You’re welcome,” Mike says stoically, giving no indication that he has picked up on Gerry’s sarcasm despite it being impossible to miss.

Michael only giggles into Gerry’s shoulder. It has to be making him at least a little dizzy at that proximately, but Gerry appears perfectly steady. It could be that he’s become accustomed to it after going out of his way to meet with the Distortion. Jon, though, thinks it’s at least a bit of him not feeling comfortable enough to show weakness around Michael yet.

Which even the Spiral aspect would admit is wise. Or he’d lie and say it isn’t. Michael is _stupid_.

“You are looking over here so intently, Philosopher. Could it be you want to partner up for this little endeavor.”

“No,” Mike and Gerry say simultaneously.

Michael isn’t fazed by the dual denial and follows languidly behind as their group of four begins moving. Mike walks pointedly between Jon and where Michal it dragging a sharpened elongated finger across the buildings they walk by, causing swirling trenches to scar their surfaces. Mike raises an eyebrow. Jon silently conveys that Michael’s actions have nothing to do with him. Mike appears unconvinced.

They head towards the location of the club where the latest disappearance occurred. There has been a rash of incidences plaguing underground clubs around London. Not underground in the sense of little known, though some of them do fit that description, but literally underground. Which already makes this one of Jon’s least favorite instigations/hunts.

At some point in the night as the clubbers dance on in a miasma of cloying alcohol, strobe lights, and throbbing music, darkness will suddenly envelop the dancefloor. It’s not a problem of the electricity being cut, as the music continues to beat in their chests regardless of the darkness. When the lights whine back on, moments or minutes later, someone is always missing. No one ever feels them push their way out of the crowd ( _although senses can be muddled in the dark_ ) and most of the persons the missing individuals came to the club with claim this as uncharacteristic behavior. 

There is no common denominator between the now 11 missing persons, outside of the fear of the dark. Admittedly, this is only a hunch that Sasha had after hacking into the police severs and scouring over incidence reports. Five of the reports have friends of the missing persons mention being worried for them because they were scared of the dark, or the individual possibly running away in panic due to the dark, or something to that extent. Considering that there has been no explanation provided for the disappearances, Jon and Gerry are apt to agree that the Dark is likely at the heart of these occurrences. 

Most people have concluded that it’s some sort of publicity stunt. Which, if Jon is being fair, is a logical conclusion to come to if you are ignorant to the supernatural forces in the world. However, Jon finds clubs generally distasteful and wonders why people even go there is the first place. People mysteriously disappearing is just another sign to go do something better with your time: stargazing, reading a book, watching a documentary – hell, ride a merry-go-round if you’re feeling particularly frisky.

In any case, the disappearances have occurred across 11 different clubs in different areas around the city with no common thread between them. The police can’t or won’t demand a shutdown of underground clubs and most of the populace isn’t taking the situation seriously. If clubgoers are going to stop disappearing, it will be because the Dark aspect has moved on or been removed.

There is no guarantee of the former, so Gerry has decided to ensure the latter.

(“What are you singing?”

“Hm? Oh, I think it’s by that band Cascada. They were popular in the early 2000s. You know, _evacuate the dancefloor~_ ”

“How do you even know that song?”

“I have range, Jon. I’m multidimensional. Just because I love punk music doesn’t mean I don’t know songs from other genres.”

“Hm. I guess.”

…

“ _LET THE BODIES HIT THE FLOOR—_ ”

“ _That’s worse!_ ” he says, definitely not laughing.)

Upon investigating the latest club, entered by not at all legal means, Gerry catches the scent. It leads them to another district that’s a bit run down. The area seems largely defunct with few people wandering about and, of course, happens to be littered with buildings with underground portions. The scent is too evenly dispersed throughout the area and it is decided they’ll need to look through all of them until they find something.

Because Gerry _is_ a bit of an asshole when he wants to be, he suggests, “why don’t the two Michaels explore this one and Jon and I do the other. That way we’ll have a Vast avatar apiece.”

He grabs Jon and leads him to the nearest building before the others respond. It is probably unnecessary, as Michael seems perfectly sanguine with the situation and Mike looks after them with dead eyes. 

Gerry easily pries boards from a broken window and Jon reluctantly follows him in. They quickly approach stairs heading downwards. Jon represses a shiver and instead scowls. They scour the building with little success, finding only detritus. Gerry inhales deeply, but only sneezes from the dust clogging the air.

Upon resurfacing, they find that the Michaels have also finished searching their building. They stand on the street. Michael looks like he has recently been caught in a tornado and seems pleased as punch about it. His features of his smiling face are swept slightly sideways from the force of the gale. Mike’s face gives away nothing.

“Happy to see you’re both working together so well! Me ‘n Jon can take this one over here.”

Seeing as Mike doesn’t look distressed ( _not that he has ever seen him look more than mildly put-upon_ ) Jon follows after Gerry with a pointed sigh.

“I don’t know what you’re sighing about. I’m simply spreading the good news of friendship, just as you shared it with me. Have you ever thought of becoming an Avatar of Friendship, Jon?”

“L.M.A.O, Gerry. You are such a mad lad. R.O.F.L.”

“I repent! Please never talk like that again.”

“That all depends on you, Mr. Keay.”

They continue searching the area as the sun crosses the sky. A few hours in, Gerry and Jon are discussing different happenings at the Archive, since Gerry is still there more often than Jon. Enough always seems to be happening there that Jon sometimes misses out on things.

“Sasha mentioned some girl named Melanie dropping by a couple times now. Some sort of youtuber or podcaster, I think. Apparently, she’s been hunting ghosts.”

“Really? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a manifestation of the Entitles as ghosts before, although I suppose that the End… wait. Melanie? Melanie King? From Ghost Hunt UK?”

“That last name sounds about right. You know her?”

“I’ve never met her as such…” but Georgie has mentioned her to him. They’re casual acquaintances, but she speaks fondly of her. Jon’s also possibly watched a few episodes of Ghost Hunt UK. It’s hardly the height of legitimate supernatural research, but he _supposes_ it’s alright so far as ghost hunting shows go.

Jon may have to initiate texting with Georgie for the first time since he left her apartment for the last time all those years ago. He doesn’t know if Melanie has had an actual encounter with an aspect of a Dread Power, but she certainly doesn’t know what she’s getting into with the Magnus Institute. Not if she hadn’t stopped at giving her initial statement. 

Jon and Gerry both ignore the collapse of the building Michael and Mike had been in. Gerry already confirmed there’s no squatters in the area and the other two are sure to be fine. 

It’s getting towards evening when they have an unexpected visitor that is decidedly not an Avatar of the Dark.

“Martin! What are you doing here?”

“Oh, um, sorry. I don’t mean to get in the way!”

“No, that’s not, not how I meant it. I am not displeased you are here. But why are you here.”

“Christ,” Gerry mutters, despite never having even heard of Christianity until he was an adult. Mike gives him what can almost be a commiserating glance.

“Sasha thought we should have an official member of Team Archive on the, the hunt. Considering she was the one to send you after this avatar, and all.”

“Once again, not that I am displeased that you are here, Martin, but we are all avatars ourselves and perfectly capable of handling another one.”

“Sasha also thought I’d be able to give her updates. She says you’re pretty bad at answering messages Jon – not that I agree! – and Gerry keeps responding to her with memes.”

Jon reflexively takes his silenced phone out of his pocket and sees that he has indeed missed several messages from Sasha. The latest being:

_‘respond if u haven’t been eaten by a giant blob of darkness that hates fun and is probably homophobic’_

Then

_‘don’t worry I know exactly who to send to check up on u ;)’_

Seeing as how the messages do not self-implode no matter how furiously he stares at them, Jon stuffs his phone back into his pocket. He looks up to find Michael cooing at an uncomfortable looking Martin and nearly hisses.

Michael’s existence is saved by Gerry boldly grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him away, unresisting. He signals to Mike as he says, “We’ll do the last few buildings in the area. Why don’t you give Martin an update on our utterly thrilling chase, Jon?”

And so, Jon is left with Martin vacillating between staring intently at him and whipping his gaze off to the side. Jon clears his throat and proceeds to give the most boring rendition of an already boring day possible. He wants to throw himself into a ditch.

Jon clams up in embarrassment and decides that not speaking is probably for the best. Martin, on the other hand, makes valiant attempts at conversation. His fingers twitch, and even after only knowing him for a short period of time, Jon knows Martin wishes he was somewhere he could make tea to alleviate some of the awkwardness.

Jon is not able to make himself latch onto any topic ( _despite desperately wanting to_ ) until Martin says, “D’you think there are any, I don’t know, good versions of the Entities. What would be the opposite of fear? Gods of Love, or Serenity, or something like that.”

“Gerry and I have thought about that before, and, no, unfortunately. The thought of benevolent gods to balance the fear gods is certainly a theory Robert Smirke would have liked, however we don’t seem that lucky. We’re stuck in a world of warlocks running amok with no paladins,” his face turns a bit self-conscious, “by which I mean…”

“Ah, no. I mean, I understand what you meant. I, ah, have played Dungeons and Dragons on and off over the years, though I’ve never had a steady group,” Martin assures Jon.

“Oh,” Jon smiles slightly, “I haven’t played in quite a while – not since uni. There are some limitations to the game play, but it’s quite fun. If you have a decent group and a good DM.”

“Maybe we could start a group!” Martin exclaims excitedly.

Jon looks at him in shock. Both for the sudden exclamation when Martin has typically been comparatively soft-spoken around him, and the implication that Martin is willing to spend time with him in a non-fear-god related capacity. Or, at least, Jon and several other people.

Martin turns immediately self-conscious at Jon’s lack of response, “Ah, no, right, that was stupid. You’re a super powerful avatar and probably have a ton of more interesting or important things to do. Sorry, I didn’t—”

“That could be fun,” Jon cuts him off, having a slight out-of-body experience, “I mean, we’d have to find people who want to play. Gerry would probably be interested. We’d also have to find time, because there is nothing more infuriating than someone having to cancel at the last minute, and with the way avatars seem confident in attacking the Archive…”

Jon doesn’t realize he’s spent the last while ranting about the logistics of playing D&D and other tabletop games until he is hailed by Mike to stop his “nerd-out” and help with the Dark avatar that they apparently have found. He flushes a bit and looks over at Martin to apologize.

Martin is smiling at him, looking completely content at having Jon talk at him about nothing for who knows how long. There are very few people in his life that are willing to do that, and it’s bizarre that someone who’s basically a stranger seems to be among them. At least Jon didn’t unconsciously fall into a Vast tangent; Martin likely wouldn’t be looking so ( _indulgent; happy)_ tolerant then.

It takes the Dark avatar screaming in tandem with Michael’s echoing laughs to completely pop their bubble and make them realize exactly what Mike had yelled at them. Jon sweeps out a hand to prevent the shadow-like wraith from diving into the darkness of a house’s window. They screech as they find themselves floating in mid-air, gravity disrupted.

Between Gerry, Michael, and an apparently peeved Mike who the other avatar went after for appearing the “weakest”, Jon and Martin were hardly needed to finish up the situation. Conscientious that Martin may not enjoy how this ends up being resolved, Jon offers to walk him back to the metro. They don’t know if the other avatar was working solo after all – they could be with the Dark’s Church.

Martin stutters that that’s unnecessary, but follows in Jon’s wake as he begins to leave the area. He glances back to see Gerry had anticipated Jon’s attention and is giving him a lazy thumbs up. Satisfied that his friend is comfortable with the situation, he leads Martin away from the now largely one-sided fight.

“I forgot to text Sasha!” Martin suddenly exclaims and scrambles for his phone. He winces at what he sees but doesn’t have time to do anything before he receives another call. While Sasha was mostly joking when she was checking on Jon and Gerry, that is clearly not the case with Martin.

Jon contentedly walks next to Martin as he devolves into an argument about them all taking risks, and the frankly impressive number of illegal exploits the Archival crew gets up to in following-up statements.

When Jon mentions that thought aloud, he is reluctantly warmed when he faintly hears her say, “ _Oh, Jon’s with you? Well I guess he wasn’t likely to let anything happen to you..._ ”

“Which you would have known if you had let me talk for a moment,” Martin snarks back, before his eyes whip to Jon as if to assess his reaction.

Jon lets a small smile rest on his face ( _as if he could control it_ ) and Martin smiles back. 

They keep smiling until Jon is watching Martin speed off on the train, and both keep smiling afterwards, though they don’t realize it.

* * *

[“You already know Jon’s an avatar of the Vast,” Gerry says to the members of the Archive. 

It’s weird, being here. A part of a group instead of being the lonesome last assistant of a woman who tossed him aside when he would have slowed her down. Was it sentiment that led her to leave him behind? Probably too much to hope. Gerry doesn’t have much luck with mother figures.

“Even if he’s admittedly a bit of an odd one,” he continues.

The Archival crew have been complaining that while Jon will expound at length about pretty much any topic, he somehow manages to completely circumnavigate any questions about himself. While they take this as him being mysterious (or suspicious), it’s more because Jon hates talking about himself than that he doesn’t want them to know anything about him. 

His friend had nearly burned his apartment down when he paused in cooking to research “how to make lasting friendships with normal humans”, so Gerry doesn’t feel guilty for telling them a bit more about Jon. General facts to cement down barebones of their growing friendships.

It wasn’t the topic he was initially here today to talk about, but there was only honest interest in Sasha’s inquiry so he doesn’t mind being derailed.

“Is he a Fairchild?” Sasha asks, eyes sharp and curious. Sasha’s a good Archivist. Definitely fits her role better than Gertrude ever tried to. She could probably make a good Gertrude, too, if she cared about her friends any less. Gerry’s grateful she doesn’t.

“Not exactly. He’s definitely under Simon Fairchild’s wing – one of his favorites as far as I can tell – but he refused to change his last name. Mike Crew is the only other one who didn’t make the change. Now that I think of it, Simon’s fond of him too, despite him being a pretty cold bastard. Maybe he likes some rebellion in people.”

“You said he’s odd,” Martin pipes up, a slight flush across his freckled cheeks, “how so?”

“You all have read statements about him, right?”

Sasha and Martin do their best to look chastened, although Sasha doesn’t manage it particularly well. Tim is completely unrepentant.

“Yeah, there’s quite a few of them. Mr. Soft-sweaters-star-man seems to be quite the prolific monster.”

Gerry snorts, because Tim is trying to needle him while feeling completely justified in his observation, and, well, “That’s only because he leaves them alive, Stoker. If Jon decided to act like your run-of-the-mill avatar, you’d only have a fraction of those statements in here. Jon’s odd because he’s chosen to not fully embrace his nature and does his best to minimize the hurt he inflicts on others.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t hurt them,” Tim shoots back, “can’t he just go after other monsters like you do? Seems pretty simple; don’t hurt normal people when there’s a bunch of other creature features for you to send into an existential crisis, or whatever.”

“Unfortunately, not all of the Dread Powers are the same – besides the demand for fear. The Hunt doesn’t care what I go after. All that matters is the chase. The Vast is a bit pickier, and it’s hard to ignore when a meal walks in front of you. How about you Sasha; think you can ignore normal humans’ statements for the rest of your life?”

Sasha’s eyes widen and Tim bristles in her defense, but Gerry just looks steadily back at them. It’s not like he’s trying to accuse Sasha. She _has_ been trying to control her compulsions since Gerry’s talked to her about being the Archivist, but she inherently has little regard for people’s privacy. She has the natural urge to dig and uncover. It hardly matters if no one is the wiser or gets hurt, does it? She’s becoming unnaturally good at hacking at this point. Firewalls have begun to crumble before her gaze without her needing to lift a finger.

But then, she’s been made the Archivist for a reason. Elias was hardly going to choose someone who wouldn’t naturally feed into the Eye after the last one largely rejected it. Gerry has a pretty hard time fighting against his Hunter instincts, or even wanting to most of the time. Sasha’s doing her best to maintain her humanity after being thrown into an insane situation where her base instinct to ‘find out and know more’ works directly against her. 

It’s not her Gerry’s comment is truly pointed at. Tim needs to see a double standard for what it is. More importantly, he needs to understand what’s happening to his friend and accept it. Or, if not accept it, he can’t ignore it until it blows up in everybody’s faces. An Archivist who values her assistants then gets betrayed by one is a Shakespearean twist Gerry has no interest in seeing happen.

The clear care and friendship between the two somehow make the situation both better and worse. Their previous relationship means there is already a foundation of trust that should help Sasha cling to her humanity and allow Tim to still see her as human. However, the man clearly has past experiences with the Entities, and if he chooses to see Sasha’s Becoming as a betrayal, then… well, it will be incredibly messy for everyone.

Sasha puts her hand on Tim’s arm and they share a look that has the man retreating begrudgingly into his seat. Gerry looks over and sees Martin’s politely averted gaze as he unobtrusively sips his tea. He glances up to meet Gerry’s eye and they share a commiserating look.

Well, at least Jon has good taste. If the two ever move in together, Martin doesn’t seem likely to mind when Gerry barges in at all hours. He may even get some excellent tea out of it too. 

The thought of Martin walking out onto the balcony to water some of Jon’s plants, only to be confronted with Ferdinand 4.0 peeking through one of the bars with Oliver on the balcony below, is _hilarious_. Gerry doesn’t know Martin well enough quite yet to predict how he’d react, but he thinks he’d like to. 

He hopes his reaction is raining down water on the End Avatar’s head. It’s not like Oliver wouldn’t find it funny too. 

“How does Jon know Elias?” Martin prompts, subtly breaking the moment between his two coworkers. Sasha and Tim’s attentions are immediately arrested. The smile that paints itself across Tim’s face even seems mostly real.

“They have to have some sort of past, what with Star-Man’s Bureaucratic Nightmare campaign. Elias walked by the other day while Angie in Research was saying something about the “union” of differing supernatural phenomena, and I swear I saw the guy flinch. If Alan from HR can manage to wrangle Rosie into giving him that spreadsheet on the historical ‘mysterious disappearances’ of institute employees, Beatrice is going to have a hell of an article to offer the newspaper. I never thought office drama could be this good.”

“It’s a bit of a nice offset from our lives now, isn’t it,” Sasha agrees, “It was a good idea telling them that planning onsite was a recipe for disaster, Martin. Not to mention implying that he has something from Artifact Storage that can do something similar to reading minds. Someone saying your boss has supernatural powers is one thing, but anyone who’s interacted with AS wouldn’t rule out a spooky crystal ball or a Leitner.”

“Well, Elias deserves to have some surprises in his life after he’s given us a rather big one, doesn’t he,” Martin primly replies.

“Angie’s started a meditation group to practice clearing your mind. Hector is practically wearing a tin hat most days. It’s great,” Tim sighs dreamily, “But you haven’t answered the question. Elias and Jon; monster exes or not?”

“That was _not_ the question,” Martin says, aghast.

“Bloody hell no,” Gerry says at the same time, “Jon met him at a Fairchild gala when he was in uni, and he was a creep. He also apparently has a thing with Peter Lukas – Elias, not Jon – and Jon does actually hate _him_. Anyway, Elias is a bit old. You know Jon is actually a few years younger than most of us? Don’t let the silver streaks and perpetually beleaguered face fool you; he hasn’t broken thirty yet.”

“I knew it,” Sasha whispers to herself. Tim slides £5 into her pocket as Martin tries not to seem pleased by this information. Gerry pretends to ignore the byplay.

“Is there something interesting about Jon that may not make it into statements?” she asks in a louder voice.

“Yeah, got any fun facts?”

A fun fact, hm?

“Oh,” Gerry snorts, “People call him the Philosopher.”

“Does the title mean something?”

“Nah. Simon made it up and it stuck because Jon hates it. He looks like a disgruntled cat every time someone calls him it.”

Tim’s shit-eating grin really speaks for itself. Gerry doesn’t bother trying to deter him. Jon needs people in his life that tease him good-naturedly. Tim’s got a bit of loose cannon in him, a destructive anger that he expertly hides under a charismatic visage, which Gerry’s watching carefully. But Sasha seems to have him pretty well in hand. He’s willing to let it rest. For now.

“Jon does dress like a professor sometimes,” Sasha says.

“The academic vibe helps him with his dating game?” Tim teasingly asks.

“He’s got that dark academia aesthetic going on. That works for some people.”

It goes unsaid that Martin is most certainly included in “some people”. Others in the room aren’t entirely excluded, either.

“I’m not sure that’s the sort of thing Jon cares about,” Sasha posits.

Gerry cuts in, “let’s not speculate about Jon’s dating habits.”

_Let’s definitely speculate about Jon’s dating habits_ , Martin doesn’t say.

“Look, I don’t mind telling you a bit about Jon and how he’s known in the fear bastards community, but I’m not going talk about anything personal. You just have to keep asking him directly about himself and make sure to seem genuinely interested. Unless it’s about emotions. He’s just, really bad at talking about those.”

_Well that doesn’t help at all_ , Martin doesn’t say.

“I wouldn’t want to invade Jon’s privacy,” he does say. And it’s the truth! A little insight into certain areas just wouldn’t hurt.

Gerry looks at Martin as if he knows exactly what he’s thinking. But he’s wearing a lopsided smile, so that’s probably fine.

“Actually, Martin, Jon mentioned you the other day. He always enjoys chatting with you when he drops by the Archives. If you wanted to shoot him a text, I don’t think he’d mind.”

“Oh, he, he did? He does? I mean, yeah, I could totally text him. That’s a thing I can do.”

“Not that this isn’t adorable,” Tim stands up and pushes away from the table, “but I believe today Gerry was going to give us pointers on how to kill monsters, not date them. Although, I’ll consider this a special bonus for certain interested members among us. Anyone want Chinese if I order it?”

“Tim!”

“Yes, Maaahtin?”

Gerry looks at Martin irately following Tim out of the room and Sasha laughing after them. It’s nice, being here. Better than he could have ever expected. It feels like belonging. It makes Gerry incredibly nervous, because when has life ever gone well for him? 

But he’s been trying to convince Michael that Sasha isn’t another Gertrude. He’s also the one always telling Jon that you can’t live life constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Maybe he should try taking his own advice.]

* * *

“Are you afraid of me?”

“What in the world brought this on?” Jon asks, ignoring the shiver that runs down his spine as he gently swings his legs over the side of the cliff. Crashing waves wear away at the rocks below. The sun only bounces off the water in fractals of light; the surface is churning too much to properly reflect anything. That’s alright though. Sometimes Jon just likes to listen to the sound of the waves.

“Most people are. Avatars are hardly exempt. In fact, I think avatars are more put off by me than humans. They know what I am, after all.” 

Oliver stands slightly behind him to his right. When Jon looks back at him, the other man is looking out to the sea. The planes of his face are highlighted by the sun and his sharply cut jaw casts shadows down his neck. His mouth is slightly parted, as if tasting for the salt on the sea breeze.

Jon does not consider himself a brave man. He is scared and apprehensive more often than most avatars. In this case, though, he supposes he has the upper hand for once. He’s known Oliver Banks since he was a man marked by death and desperately struggling against it. He’s seen helpless tears carve their way down a careworn face more than once. 

Jon is usually hopeless at providing comfort, but not walking away and simply sitting next to him seemed to work well enough. They once held hands while sitting on a park bench, snow flurrying down around them and a singular street lamp pushing back the dark. Neither talked, but they hadn’t needed to.

Their circumstances are too similar. Even if Oliver bowing to the End crushed a certain pasture of hope inside Jon, he can hardly blame him. Terminus is patient yet relentless in a way that even the Vast can’t mimic. 

Despite knowing Oliver now has a flavor of nihilism to rival Simon etched into his soul, he’s never belittled Jon’s efforts or tried to dissuade him. He doesn’t think Oliver believes in him, exactly, because it’s now intrinsic for him to believe all things must end. His lack of comment on the matter, however, is basically a ringing endorsement of support. It’s a bit harder to understand Oliver now, but fear has never been a factor in Jon’s feelings towards him.

They argue about inevitability and meaning and choices, but that’s also because those were never conversations Jon let them seriously have when Oliver was still human. He was afraid of discouraging the other man because he himself wasn’t sure what he believed to be true. The nature of what they are, the beings they serve… how could Jon tell Oliver to keep fighting in the face of a frank conversation about that? Perhaps he did them a disservice, not talking about it before Oliver Became. 

Terminus claimed Oliver in a way that etched death into every crevice of his being. His lack of fear of death makes Oliver even further removed from humanity than the average avatar. It’s why they fear him so; for all their power, avatars have not truly overcome death. It will come for them eventually no matter how far they’ve “elevated” themselves, and that _terrifies_ them. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, and all that. Even Simon dreads death for all he espouses the ephemeral nature of life.

Jon is scared to die too, of course. He would have let himself wither away long ago if he didn’t fear death more than he abhors feeding on others. But scared of Oliver? Even if looking at him is like looking death in the eye, facing his own mortality, the thought of fearing him after all these years is truly _laughable_. 

“Please name one genuine reason I should be scared of you. Just one that I won’t be able to immediately refute. I’ll wait.”

Lips curl up and white teeth gleam in the sun’s light, “I suppose I should have expected that. For someone who so often nags others for being reckless, you really do have incredibly poor self-preservation instincts.”

“Would I ever need to worry about protecting myself from you?”

Softly, “No. I suppose not.”

“There. Don’t get cocky just because you’re the embodiment of the End. You’re not even that frightening.”

“I don’t actually have a problem with scaring others. It’s only certain people I’d rather not be.”

“There’s nothing good about scaring people. It only leads to more misery.”

“We are meant to be frightful, Jon. It’s not so bad. Sometimes putting the fear of your god in someone can be quite useful. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy making it so that certain individuals are a bit more wary around you. Actually, I think that’s something you _should_ do. I’m sure that Hunter of yours would agree with me.”

Jon _hm_ s noncommittally and doesn’t concede the point. It’s an idea planted, though.

“You don’t always need to focus on the negatives of being an avatar.”

“There’s not much good. We hurt people, slowly lose our grips on humanity, and end up as nothing more than instruments of fear. It would be infinitely better if we had never Become.”

“I am sensing your deep well of self-righteous guilt bubbling up again.”

“Well, I was the only person who could have helped you, and in the end, I didn’t do much.”

“I think it’s up to me to decide if you did enough for me, don’t you?”

“I… suppose,” Jon says begrudgingly. 

“And maybe you’ll believe it one day.”

Oliver sinks down fairly gracefully to sit at Jon’s side. The braids framing his face swing with both the movement and the breeze. They sit for a few minutes in mutual silence, enjoying the pleasant day. Eventually he turns his head to face Jon, face expectant.

“Well, don’t you have something you want to talk about? You’ve always got a topic. If you’re truly hard up, we can return to a classic.”

Sardonically, “If you’re not careful I’ll end up talking you into an existential crisis. Although you probably wouldn’t mind me expounding on the ‘enormity of the permanence of death’, or whatever it was Mike accused me of when we first met.”

“You’re right,” Oliver says as he suddenly leans closer into Jon’s space. Jon can pick out his individual eyelashes as his lips curl like they hold a secret. 

“I wouldn’t mind hearing you speak about death. The inevitable winding down of life. One moment breaking into the next in an unending march, only to enter the shade of the valley that none return from. How large is death, that everything eventually becomes part of its Domain? Even the stars die, their living selves seen by beings on distant planets eons after they have already been blown out. What is death’s breadth? Its never-ending length? Or is it but an endless moment in time; the amber all life will be suspended in once it passes from the mortal plane. Can you tell me, Jon? Can you tell me if the stars in your eyes are ones that have died, and you have stolen them from the End’s own grasp?”

Jon’s eyes are locked with Oliver’s. He feels his breath hitch and he thinks he can almost see the endless roots of death winding around them. They pulse in place of Oliver’s still heart. It’s certainly a steadier beat than Jon’s fluttering heart can seem to manage. A dark hand reaches up and cups the air next to Jon’s cheek. The chill of his skin soothes the heat of Jon’s. 

“After all, lovely,” and his face abruptly turns mischievous, “you know I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

Jon jumps off the cliff and disappears to Oliver’s chuckles lilting on the breeze.

* * *

When Jon gets Gerry’s call, he expects for him to have an update on the Archive’s investigation into Gertrude’s notes. He doesn’t expect to almost have a heart attack.

“Gerry, what did you say?”

“ _There’s been a bit of an incident with a Stranger aspect trying to kill everyone at the Archives, and maybe assume their identity. I was out on a hunt when my spidey-sense told me something was going on in my territory. By the time I got back, things had already escalated. Martin had it the worst—_ ”

“Oh god, Martin? Is he alright?”

“ _If you’d let me talk, yes. A bit scraped up, and a lot shaken, but still in one piece. And himself. That’s an important bit._ ”

“Oh, that’s. Good. Tim and Sasha are fine too? And you’re not hiding some heroic wound and trying to be stoic about it?” Jon begins to gather up his things to head over to the Institute, trying to temper his heart’s frantic pounding.

“ _Please never make me out to be some kind of action hero again._ ”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a horror movie protagonist who doesn’t die at the end. Tim and Sasha?”

“ _They’re both also a bit shaken up, but fine. Didn’t get quite as close as dear Martin, who you nearly just transformed into a grieving widow for._ ”

“I care about Martin a normal amount. I’d thank you for not suggesting otherwise, Gerry,” Jon says as he stuffs a first aid kit Simon had jokingly bought him for “when he gets into scuffles” into his bag.

“ _Right, sure. From the noise you’re making I assume you’re heading over our way. Bring some alcohol with you, would you? I think we could all use some._ ”

Gerry disconnects and Jon glares at his phone. He never directly answered whether he’s injured or not. Jon still stops at a Tesco to buy a couple bottles of a brand he knows Gerry likes. He tries not to let his impatience bleed through into something unearthly as he stands in line. He’s not sure how successful he is, considering a couple people in front of him inexplicably decide to abandon their groceries and leave the store. Jon is extremely polite to the cashier in recompense. 

By the time he gets to the Magnus Institute it’s been nearly half an hour since Gerry called. Night is beginning to darken the sky and something in Jon reflexively relaxes. 

He hurries through the conspicuously unlocked front door and down into the Archives. The Archival members and Gerry are in the main room. A few chairs have been crowded around one of the desks. Martin sits in one and patiently allows Tim to wrap bandages around in him in what appears to be an attempt at mummification. Jon feels the urge to fuss similarly to Tim, but simultaneously does not feel like he has the right to fuss. He thus restrains himself with the knowledge that Martin appears more exasperated than in pain despite the excess of bandages. 

Sasha hovers between them and Gerry who is sprawled on the floor, one leg laying straight in front of him and clearly injured.

“I _knew_ it!” Jon exclaims as he bustles towards Gerry. He hastily sets the bag with alcohol on the other desk in the room and begins to unzip his bag to pull out the med kit.

Gerry sighs dramatically and halfheartedly raises a hand to ward off the Unstoppable Tide of Jon’s Worry. 

“Jon, you know I’ll be fine in a bit. Wounds don’t last too long on me.”

“That is not necessarily the case with avatar inflicted wounds, as you well know that I know. Not to mention, it’s been long enough since you fought that if it wasn’t serious that gash would have already closed up more.”

“It wouldn’t be a problem if I had been able to complete my hunt,” Gerry mutters darkly.

Jon raises a brow in question as he pours some ( _likely highly unnecessary_ ) hydrogen peroxide over the jagged wound in Gerry’s leg before starting to wrap it up.

“The Changeling, the Not-Them, is trapped in the tunnels,” Sasha speaks up to provide an explanation, “the walls _moved_ and sectioned it off from us after Gerry got injured. I don’t think it can find a way out or it would have already followed us up here. I would feel better if I knew it was dead, though. It was pretty bad off before its… _claws_ , I guess, managed to get Gerry’s leg, but I don’t know if it will die from its wounds. I suspected that there was something in the tunnels, and even that the tunnels themselves were moving. I suppose it should be a relief that whatever it is helped us.”

She doesn’t sound too certain in that assessment, but then, she definitely looks troubled. No wonder; she’s been attacked by an aspect of the Stranger, of all Entities, in her own Domain. Jon also doubts the three of them would have been in a good position to fight against it without Gerry. They lasted long enough for him to get there, though.

“Where did it come from? Did Elias really let a Stranger aspect waltz into here uncontested? I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise after Prentiss…”

Beyond Sasha’s form, Jon sees Tim’s roll of bandages run out around the midpoint of Martin’s right arm. It seems to have some bruises scratches, but luckily nothing as serious as Gerry’s leg wound. Martin seems to wilt in relief, before finding that it was premature as Tim’s eyes immediately hone in on Jon’s kit.

Within a few loping strides Tim has swiped a few of Jon’s bandage rolls and stopped by the Tesco bag to pluck out a bottle. He raises another one in Martin’s direction but appears unsurprised by the other man waving him of.

“A med kit and booze? Maybe you’re not so bad, Philosopher,” Tim says so jovially that Jon is only reflexively bristling as he blinks after the man’s retreating figure.

Martin tries to dissuade his approaching friend, “Really Tim, it’s hardly that bad; only scratches! You’ve already done all of my other arm and around my stomach and neck, and... you’ve got injuries too, so if anything, I should be wrapping you up.”

“ _I_ did not try to play chicken with the horrific bloody abomination of Not-Dave,” Tim replies in a tone that is both cheerful and passive-aggressive. Passive-aggressively cheerful.

Before Martin can reply, Tim’s eyes skate back towards Jon as his hands immediately begin rolling bandages around Martin, “Not only did Elias allow it in here, it apparently ate Dave from Artifact Storage months ago and replaced his entire life! Those two Cockney delivery monsters dropped off a table ages ago and the thing was just waiting to snatch up someone. Apparently, one of us would have been preferable, going by the monologue it inflicted on us – Sasha induced, of course. She got it to stay still for a while, but apparently, she can’t move either when she puts the voodoo on someone. Tried to get us to run away without her.” He ties off the end of the bandage aggressively.

“We would have been dead before Gerry even got here if Michael didn’t pull us through his door. Though he, admittedly, could have been a bit gentler,” Sasha says, rubbing absentmindedly around a small gash in her shoulder Jon can imagine being left behind by Michael’s sharply grasping fingers.

“Well, considering we were separated from you when he dumped us to wander like lab rats in the tunnels, consider me only marginally grateful.”

“It was for the best Sasha wasn’t with us, considering, um, Not-Dave wanted her, and it found us first.”

“Sure, Martin. I am – genuinely! – absolutely fucking happy that thing wasn’t in spitting distance of Sasha when it cornered us. But you talking to it and, and I don’t know, reasoning with it? Trying to get it to go after you instead of me or her. What did you think you were doing? You can’t, you. Martin what would I— what would you have done if it had tried to take you instead, right there?” The look in Tim’s eyes is roiling, a cloying fear that Jon can tell doesn’t stem only from the events of the night.

“To be honest, I kind of black out from fear when I started talking to it. You were yelling at it and I just knew I didn’t want it to attack you and maybe I could get us some breathing space? Even if it did go after one of us, better me than you or Sasha. Not that it worked. We all would’ve been dead if Gerry hadn’t come.”

“You’re selling yourself way too short, mate,” Gerry speaks up, hand curling around where Jon’s had come to rest motionless on his bandaged leg and gently lifting it off.

“How do you mean?” Jon asks absently as he pulls back his hands to rub his crouching knees. He didn’t like the implication of Martin’s self-deprecating comment of his lack of worth.

“In the best way possible, Martin lied like a motherfucker. He saw me sneaking around the corner to try and get in a good position to ambush the Not-Them. Then I knocked into some junk on the floor like an _idiot_ , and instead of panicking and letting the Not-Them get its guard up, he starts yelling like an award-winning actor to ‘Run Sasha! It wants you! Get out while you can!’ And the thing believed him hook, line, and sinker. I wouldn’t have been able corner it so easily otherwise.”

“Oh, that’s, that was quite brave, Martin. Quick thinking too,” even if the thoughts of Martin attempting to talk with the Stranger avatar then tricking it to boot gives Jon residual anxiety.

Martin turns bright red, but his expression goes from vaguely distant to a genuine smile and the tightness in Jon’s chest loosens in response. The other man looks to be gearing up for words but they escape him.

“Yeah, Martin, you really were incredible. I’m just sorry I wasn’t there to help. It was looking for me, after all,” Sasha smiles apologetically at Martin as her two coworkers swiftly assure her that there was no way they had wanted her in that situation.

Sasha nods along but her smile is tight; a façade to try and ensure her friends don’t worry about her. The Not-Them, Not-Dave, has surely shaken the sense of safety she had just been rebuilding after the Prentiss attack. More than that, Jon has come to find that he and Sasha are similar in many ways, though it doesn’t seem obvious looking at their personalities.

Because of this, Jon is certain she feels guilty. As their boss and nominal “powerful avatar” of the three, he’s sure she feels like she should have been the one protecting them. Not even being there when they could have been killed, after having tried the self-sacrificial route to save them, feels like a slap to the face. Like she has failed. And failure could have cost dearly if it wasn’t for others’ interventions.

And under that, knowing the Eye, even knowing himself, she’s still _curious_. What are the Changeling’s powers exactly? What does it do to replace someone? What would have happened if it had replaced one of her friends? Would she have noticed? These selfish thoughts, do they make her a bad person? A horrible friend? Are they the results of her Becoming, or, somehow worse, are they just _her_?

Brains are assholes generally. Worse when you have to process trauma, worse still when you’re not sure what you should be thinking or feeling.

Jon has recently begun compiling information to create packets on trauma and trauma processing. He leaves them where his victims can find them. He’s picked up a thing or two doing his research. He thinks he might leave one in Gerry’s apartment, but that would mean Gerry would try and turn things on him. Which sounds awful, and Jon having trauma or problems beyond what he inflicts on others sounds fake, but he’s read the packets. He _knows_. Truly, this is Terrible Knowledge worthy of Beholding.

Clearly Jon needs to print out some more packets and leave them in the Archives ( _which he really should have thought of before, everything considered_ ), but Sasha would hardly want to talk about any of that when it is clear adrenaline is still running through everyone. Perhaps Jon could at least provide a modicum of comfort.

“I’m happy you all came out all right. Regardless, you all don’t have to worry about the Not-Them for the moment. Even if it _is_ still alive and it came here, I wouldn’t let it be around you all for long.”

And remarkably, inexplicably, they _believe_ him. Not that they shouldn’t, exactly. They’ve read statements about his powers, after all, and Jon’s told them a bit about his Domain. Hell, Martin’s been in it, even if it hardly poses a threat to him like it would to hostile avatars.

But he sees their shoulders visibly relax. Even Tim’s, who Jon was sure wouldn’t trust him to babysit his cactus, nonetheless protect him from another monster. Seeing this sort of visible trust in him, particularly from individuals who wouldn’t be able to otherwise fight off an avatar like Gerry would with or without him, is startling. Trusting in him to do the right thing, believing in his ability to protect them. 

It’s not something that Jon has ever dealt with before. Power is so easily used for evil. It’s usually used for selfish gain, as far as Jon’s concerned. Jon doesn’t typically like to feel powerful. But, here, in this situation, with people trusting in his power and his ability to wield it for something other than ill, he in turn almost wants to believe in himself. 

Jon doesn’t want their trust in him to be in vain.

They decide to abandon the Archives for the night and head to Sasha’s flat. They pause when Tim notices a cut through Martin’s pants and insists on wrapping it up, to Martin’s exasperation. However, it’s clear that bandaging Martin it really for Tim’s emotional comfort more than anything, and the other man lets him proceed with minimal grumbles.

A laugh manages to be wrung from all of them as Martin walks forward, looking like a poor attempt at making a mummy costume. Sasha and Tim walk close to his sides and they head out of the building.

Fresh and cool night air hits Jon’s face and he can hear Gerry take a bracing breath besides him. He pauses at the top of the step and Jon naturally stops with him. The others carry on ahead of them, not noticing they aren’t following.

“That person in the tunnels, I’ve caught their scent before. When I was still human, so it’s not as strong as it could be. But whoever it is… something about them really riles the Hunt in my blood,” Gerry grins ferally. 

Jon does not envy whatever, or whoever, had caught Gerry’s preternatural attention. Even if they had ended up helping the Archival crew in the end, their existence beneath the Magnus Institute poses many questions. Not to mention, someone Gerry had met as a human leaves quite a few possibilities considering his work with Gertrude. With brings up the option that whoever it is was an affiliate of Gertrude, and knows more about the circumstances surrounding her death considering her corpse was left in the tunnels.

They would have had to ensure that the Not-Them died anyway. Or, at least ensure that it does die. Gerry has to finish his hunt and make certain the Archives is protected from this threat. Jon is hardly going to let him go it alone this time. He thinks about that thing cruelly taunting the members of the Archive, waiting to grind their lives between its teeth then spit it out to wear in grotesque dress, and feels a heatless light spill from between his lips.

Gerry laughs and elbows him, “Oh, you ready for a hunt, Sims? Want to avenge your beloved’s scratches?”

Jon shoves him back, marking the way that he was already much steadier on his leg, “You say that like it I find it at all acceptable that it hurt you – or, just, any one you generally.”

“You know you don’t need to worry about me.”

“Just like you don’t need to worry about me?”

“What, are you going for a round two already?” Tim calls back to them before Gerry can respond. The three stand in the distance, having stopped when it becomes apparent they were down a couple people.

Sasha waves for them to hurry up. Martin attempts to do the same, though he doesn’t appear able to lift his arms far. He says something that makes Tim burst out in a jagged bought of surprised laughter that echoes down the street.

Gerry snorts and leans a bit into Jon as they go to catch up.

* * *

“You’re really quite interesting, you know that Jon?”

The use of his preferred name makes Jon sit up and look at Simon. They’re on a beach in Spain, Simon having claimed that he had urgent business in the country and that Jon would be cruel to let an old man travel alone. That’s bullshit, obviously, but Simon somehow still managed to guilt Jon into agreeing to go.

It’s sunset and they’re both laying on beach chairs, a large umbrella shading them from the setting sun. It stays light rather late here this time of year. Jon’s been unconsciously looking for stars for hours as the roar of waves lulls him into an almost meditative state. Even if he prefers the nighttime sky, the bright colors of the sunset gleam beautifully off the sea.

“Where’s this coming from all of the sudden?”

“Oh, it’s something I’ve thought about for a while. Your powers are the most obvious interesting point about you. But you’ve heard quite a lot about that, and despite what others believe, mixings of the Fear’s powers are not a wholly uncommon occurrence over the eons. Not common, perhaps, but many of the Dread Powers are closer in nature than factions like to admit. After all, there’s a reason the Vast works so well with the Lonely, as much as you hate to admit it, or the Eye with the Web. The Knife in the Mist, a Slaughter and Lonely mix, was quite the boogeyman during the Nine Years War – you may have heard it as the “Rough Wooing”, such a delightful renaming – especially when the _haar_ would roll in. But I’ve gone a bit off track; keep the interrogation I see glinting in your eyes for another conversation, would you?

No, what makes you really interesting are your choices. You’re no Agnes Montague, but you’ve still had the Vast influencing you since you were quite young. One would expect you to have shed human morality quite some time ago. Then again, Agnes was a bit of an odd one herself; she did not know how to be anything but the herald of the Desolation, yet she, forgive the pun, had little fire to her. It’s what led to her death, you know. Or, well, perhaps that could be laid at the feet of the last Archivist. She was not nearly as delightful as your new one sounds, stingy as you are about talking about her to me.

Still, you are conscientious of preserving humanity and your perception of their inherent worth in a way Agnes never was. She could be nothing but what she was created to be, and when she thought she couldn’t continue being even that, she ceased to be altogether. I suppose one could consider comparing you to Gertrude, if they were to be gauche, in her rejection of the Eye. But you love the Vast, Jonny, and yet you fight it. And even with Gertrude, despite her abhorrence at the thought of becoming a _monster_ like the rest of us, I’d argue that’s just what she was by the end. Fighting for the world because it’s your personal crusade hardly makes you a hero. She was never fighting for others; she was fighting for herself and to fulfill what she decided was her purpose in life. 

I suppose you could argue she made a difference by stopping so many rituals, but there were millennia before Gertrude Robinson. None of the rituals had ever succeeded before. The Dread Powers are quite skilled at sabotaging each other. I suppose you could chalk that up to the ‘balance’ that Robert so dearly loved, but I am not so inclined. Robert rather ended up doing to opposite of what he intended to, in any case, harkening a sort of renaissance of Acolytes of Fear, rather than impose any control. Not that he could have even if the person who told him of the Powers had pure intentions. Shakespeare would have had a kick writing the tales of those with the hubris to try to control and constrain higher powers but ended up doing the exact opposite, between Robert and Leitner. Quite the tragedy to be told…”

Simon trails off, lost in memories. He’s quite gregarious when he gets on a subject, but easily digresses away from the original topic. Particularly when he dwells on memories of his inscrutably long life – it is hard to tell if he mentions historical events and persons through third, second, or firsthand knowledge. Simon honestly isn’t so different than the human elderly in some ways. He loves to tell stories and ruminate on his past. Jon knows he won’t swing around to what they were originally talking about unless he prompts him.

Jon doesn’t. His head is full with the narratives Simon had so casually weaved. Jon knows little of Agnes besides her being born as the Lightless Flame’s sort-of messiah figure ( _and that Jude Perry was maybe in love with her?_ ), but he would have liked to talk to her. He’d hardly claim to have the same circumstances as her, but knowing your god from a young age and being surrounded by a group that encourages you to embrace your monstrousness is… familiar. He does not know how Gertrude fits in or how she was able to stop Agnes from fulfilling the destiny that was given to her. 

How did Agnes feel? Did she love the Desolation, yet found herself unable to give it all that it wanted? Did she regret that? Was she relieved? Did it hurt? Was it the only thing that let her feel like she was still a person and more than an appendage of an eldritch being? 

But these are probably silly questions. After all, when she acknowledged she could no longer be what she was meant to be, she chose death.

That is… disheartening.

Then there is Jurgen Leitner and Robert Smirke. Two men whose actions caused far more hurt than any good intentions could absolve them of. From what Jon has gleamed from Simon, Leitner never intended for his ‘library’ to be disseminated back into the public. He knows little else, but the fact that the man thought he could keep pieces of the Entities from themselves without destroying them goes beyond hubris. He was a _fool_. Jon can perhaps think kinder of Smirke ( _as he does not have personal experience with the man’s mistakes_ ) but it seems without him few of the English factions would be as strong as they are, or even exist. Not to mention his architecture is an absolute nightmare.

But, they ( _with an emphasis on Smirke_ ) thought they could help. Thought they were helping. Inaction is as much a sin as action. Would they be wrong to do nothing when they saw such great evil on earth? Could they have known their actions would make things worse? Is it even worse? The books would still exist, sans library plate, and the Fears would likely have found another way to infiltrate English society. 

Agnes, Leitner, Smirke, even Gertrude. What differences did they make? Which choices were theirs, and which the machinations of others? Is everything a game of predestination: a play where the actors fumble about without lines, but are inevitably moved by an implacable plot that will reach its winding end regardless of individual action?

“Efficacy…” Jon muses with a furrow in his brow. 

“Hm?” Simon’s eyes clear from the cloudiness of memories and focus back on Jon.

“Do you think we have control over our own lives? Do our choices matter? Choosing to do good versus evil: is there a difference in the end? Having both the tools and the will to do good and having it amount to nothing, change nothing. Was there a point to trying to do good in the first place, then? Is there a point to individual struggle, when you can’t hope to affect the mechanisms that turn the world, both on the human and cosmic scales? Can we actually change anything?”

“What questions! You’ve certainly been saving some fun ones up for me.”

“Simon.”

“I’m quite sure you know my answer. Ultimately: no. We are all insignificant. Our actions can no more change things than a mote of dust can hope to affect us. Evil and good are concepts that humanity dreamed up. The universe is indifferent to morality. Struggle and sacrifice do not matter when human existence is only a stutter in the infinite time of before and after us. There is no point in doing something that harms you to help others. They do not matter. On scale, their pain does not exist. There is no reason to do anything but live life as you like, because ultimately, your decisions hold no weight. Why do anything but enjoy yourself?”

Jon lets Simon’s answer wash over him. The old man was right, in that Jon knew his answer to his questions before he even asked. It would be impossible not to, after knowing him for so many years.

Yet, something is different this time. Not Simon’s answers, but Jon’s response to them. Where before he always felt a sort of resignation hearing the other Vast avatar’s philosophy, a certain weariness that while he doesn’t want them to be, the words are likely the truth, he feels something different now.

Jon has never admitted he agreed with Simon because he was afraid to. He was scared of what it meant for him if he acknowledged Simon’s views as the truth. Now, Jon feels no fear. Only a tentative certainty. The blush of dawn just lightening the sky.

“You know, even with everything that’s happened in my life, I still don’t think I agree with you, Simon. I don’t think I ever will.”

“Oh? You didn’t sound so certain just a few moments ago.”

“It’s hard to believe that my actions matter in the scheme of things, but thinking of all the people that have helped or done something good for me in my life – including yourself, may I remind you – I think I’d be a different person without them. I still have the painting a girl from secondary school gave me for graduation. Looking at it still makes me happy, perhaps in a bittersweet way, but knowing even then someone thought enough about me to make it matters. It matters to me, at least. Maybe we can’t always change things on a large scale… but I think, maybe, we don’t need to. Doesn’t touching just one person’s life matter?”

He thinks about Oliver. How Jon’s support wasn’t enough for him not to die. How he tried to absolve Jon of his guilt. How he said his life was brighter for Jon even trying. Even if it wasn’t enough for Oliver to continue to live in the state he was in, if Jon was able to help at all, doesn’t that mean he was right to try in the first place? That he has a duty to try to help, even if he can only help so much? That Oliver’s happiness, even in the midst of the dark places he was pushed to as he struggled with his Becoming, meant something?

Perhaps Jonathan Sims can’t defeat a fear god. Perhaps he won’t be able to save even his own humanity. But… the times that he has laughed and made others laugh, shared burdens in some small way, met someone’s eyes and smiled in simple happiness, carefully fed his god knowing that his victim will get up to live another day… are these things not important too?

Simon is looking at him closely. His face is the most serious Jon as ever seen him. The old man sighs and looks back to the sunset, hand rubbing at his mouth.

Fondly, “Jon, I think you are the only Vast avatar who could think such a thing after living with our god for so long. I can’t agree with you, of course. Humans live for but a moment and die before they fully exist. Thinking that a single human life holds any importance is alien to me now.”

“I don’t expect to change your mind, Simon. I admit to having my moments, but even I’m not that arrogant.”

“Quite right!” he hums, “but, as I was previously saying, it really is rather remarkable that you have such a mindset. There is quite some time yet for that to change, but considering you’ve been Becoming since you were a child, have had the Vast’s influence growing in and around you as your mind was forming, and yet still insist on believing in such a view… yes, remarkable. Perhaps unique. I may never meet another person exactly like you, Jon. I suppose, like you’ve said, isn’t that something?”

Jon stares at the aged face of the man who is the closest he’s had to a father. His feelings are as tangled as the ones he sees on the other man’s face. He forces himself to scoff and join him in looking at the sunset.

“Feeling sentimental?”

“Perish the thought! Can’t have the others think I’m going soft. You’ve developed enough infamy in that department for the both of us, considering you refuse to display the full scope of your powers. I’m sure it’d truly be a sight to see if you’d allow yourself more than snacks with the occasional full meal when another avatar actually manages to take a step too far.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over me enjoying the beach.”

Simon’s familiar jovial laugh mixes with the sound of the waves and the gentle breeze, and Jon allows himself to feel a measure of peace. 

And he thinks.

* * *

Jon has somehow acquired a bit of a reputation for being weak. All bark and no bite. If that were only true, he wouldn’t feel the need to be so careful with his actions all the time.

It’s not like he doesn’t know why so many avatars have that impression of him. Being “squeamish” of hurting people, especially after so long, is something of an anomaly. Marking it down to being weak is a simple enough conclusion.

What they don’t understand is that it’s a choice. Being the avatar of something like a fear god makes most of those human emotions like empathy and care fade away as you are forced to begin to see humans as something other. Jon’s hardly immune to it. Guilt is still there, because god forbid the Vast bother to chip away at any of his negative emotions, but it is scarily easy to be indifferent to the fate of a stranger. It’s so, so easy to lose yourself in your god and forget that the world and other people matter in any real way.

Jon trying to minimize his harm to the world is a choice. And it’s a hard one. It’s a fight that Jon is probably going to lose, one day. But for all their talk of it, most avatars have very little understanding of choices that don’t align with their worldview. 

Simon and Mike understand it. Still, both of them think it’s futile. Simon finds it both baffling and amusing, though he has come to respect it in his way. Jon thinks he might catch a glance of something wistful in Mike when he calls it pointless, but that could just be Jon projecting. Wanting to see humanity that isn’t there in the Avatar of the Vast that’s closest to him.

Gerry, when he leans up against the bookstore wall where Jon is rigidly holding himself back from approaching a university student terrified of the amount of knowledge he must know for his final, says, “I think it’s admirable. Not many could last as long as you have. It’s not something I have to deal with, considering the Hunt doesn’t care what my prey is. Maybe it’ll be pointless in the end, like you’re worried about, but that doesn’t mean what you’ve accomplished doesn’t mean something. You’re rather strong, aren’t you, Jonathan Sims?”

Scoffing at his flattery and ignoring the heat stinging his cheeks takes his mind off of the finally departing teenager.

Oliver only smiles. Sad and knowing. 

Jon isn’t good. He doesn’t think he’d necessarily be good even if the Vast hadn’t found him as a child and put stars in his eyes. He tries, though. 

He doesn’t want to hurt other people, though he must to some extent. Even if his control is rotting away with each year that passes, each moment upon countless moment that ticks by, he still tries.

Jonathon Sims has never had the sort of personality that wished harm upon anyone but himself. Unfortunately, he leads the sort of life that ends up hurting others anyway, perhaps permanently if he’s not careful. It’s why he sometimes wants to preemptively isolate himself. 

However, that’s the sort of thing that has avatars losing their grip on humanity quicker, and caring less and less about those they must feed on to survive. Also, isolation is the sort of thing that makes pricks like Peter Lukas look unbearably smug. He’d rather not do anything that could bring Peter his vacant sort of happiness or satisfaction if he can help it.

And now Jon has Gerry. Along with Martin, Sasha, and Tim in the Archives, if he’s being confident. Simon, as complicated as that can be. Georgie and he have been talking more and more lately; notifying her about the dangerous situation her now-girlfriend was getting into certainly helped. Mike and Oliver, if he’s being completely honest with his feelings, which is a hazardous game he plays very rarely. 

Not Michael, though, god forbid. Gerry and Sasha can keep the Distortion all to themselves. They can also let it know to stop manifesting its disgustingly cheery door in surfaces reflecting the sky that Jon’s looking into, _thanks_.

His sentimentality over these connections would make his community look down upon him even more. Things like friendship and human love are seen as weak emotions, unable to truly hold up against what actually shapes the world. Fear, and its many forms, is the only true power.

Jon’s not so sure. He’s hardly an expert on the human condition, but he likes to think he’s learned a thing or two throughout the years. His struggle with himself and his impulses hasn’t necessarily gotten easier, but it hasn’t seemed quite as impossible recently.

Maybe he is a fool. A sentimental weakling. Feelings are fleeting and so easily broken. Death is an inescapable end and the head of a dark eternity. Humans are but the ashes of dead stars, shadows on the path of existence. On the scale of the cosmos, what is the worth of one hand taking another? 

But Jon nurses these warm feelings the people in his life have gifted him and wraps them tight around himself. It feels as if he has swallowed a star and its light suffuses him from the inside out. It is a glowing, lovely thing.

If something is worth fighting for, it is worth fighting for alone. 

Fighting with someone at your side, however, is what makes life bearable. 

It has never been so easy to be Jonathan Sims as it is now. He won’t forget who he owes that to.

* * *

“So, you’re saying that the contract you signed is actually evil and keeps you tied to the institute? And that if Elias dies, then you all die?”

“ _Yeah, that’s about it_.”

“The Fairchilds have very good lawyers, if you’d like them to look one of the contracts over?”

“ _I’m guessing that a contract drawn up by the servant of an evil fear god of knowledge and likely perfected over centuries isn’t filled with loopholes._ ”

“I suppose you have a point there. Well, if nothing else, someone wandering endlessly in a world of only the sky and its reflection wouldn’t be dead, but would still be gone. I’m sure I could find a way to ensure he doesn’t die in my Domain while he’s trapped.”

“ _That’s… I’ll have to figure out if Elias being gone from this plane of existence qualifies as ‘dead’, but that’s not a bad idea, Jon. There are also artifacts like the Coffin I’ve read about in statements that could achieve a similar effect. I’ll have to research more about it without giving myself away to Elias. I can’t always depend on these rooms Gerry claims to have made Creeper-proof,_ ” she pauses and her next words are distinctly said around a smile, “ _Then again, maybe this is a moot point since Rosie seems two condescending comments away from starting the Glorious Revolution, after Alan had that mysteriously well-timed breakdown and left. There’s no way Elias would survive unionization._ ”

For the first time in the conversation, Sasha’s thoughtful voice takes on a hopeful tinge. Jon can’t help but feel a bit proud. There’s no absolute solution yet, but he may have given his friends at the Archives a more realistic idea on how to get rid of their evil boss. He’s sure the Lukases will be put out if they succeed, but he’s certain he can get Simon to continue funding if Sasha, Tim, and Martin decide they want to stay and takeover. 

He isn’t sure if Sasha has the choice to leave at this point. Jon’s not excellent at gauging how far along people are in Becoming. But Sasha already has some of the Archivist’s powers, and she’d have to change her habits drastically to stop feeding the Ceaseless Watcher. The simple act of finding out new information, even just from watching the news or a documentary, could be construed as a tribute to it. Not enough of a tribute to satisfy it so that it wouldn’t feed on her, but still one that invites it in. 

But they still have a while until that problem becomes relevant. Sasha has been talking with Gerry about the Unknowing, and research into Gertrude’s plan to stop it will likely take precedence over how to kill Elias. Even Tim seems to find the former more important, singularly intense at the mention of the Stranger. 

Despite the Vast and the Stranger’s general indifference towards each other, Jon will likely be roped in himself. Gerry will almost be certainly going. Between Gerry and Sasha, Michael is likely to follow behind. While Michael is less erratic than he was, he’s still the Distortion. It wouldn’t be unwise to have another person to keep a wary eye out.

He also hasn’t forgotten how the Not-Them tried to either kill or unmake his friends. How it got especially close to Martin. It’s not like he has a grudge against I Do Not Know You or anything. That would be preposterous. It should just be noted that he remembers. 

* * *

Jon has only met Annabelle Cane once so far. He hopes he can keep it at that.

He doesn’t remember why he chose to enter the bakery, but it’s likely a moot point, all things considered. A coffee and a pastry sit expectantly across from a woman with dark skin and hair parted carefully over one side of her skull.

From the statement Sasha has told him about, he expects it’s the side of her skull that had been caved in. He’s never seen the Web avatar in person before. That hasn’t stopped gossip about her from reaching his unwilling ears and building a picture of her.

Jon’s never felt the need to seek out an agent of the Web to discern how they feel. He’s already all too aware.

He considers walking right back out of the bakery, but Annabelle Cane has long since spotted him and waves him over with a friendly smile. A part of Jon still wants to say to hell with it and leave, but he’d rather not find out what sorts of other situations she could construct if she truly wants to talk. Also, what the hell does the Web want with him?

He sighs and takes a seat across from the woman leaning her elbows on the nicely varnish wooden table. He spitefully takes a drink of the coffee and is disgruntled to find it’s made exactly how he likes it. But joke’s on her; Jon’s been more of a tea drinker lately.

“It’s delightful to finally meet you Jon,” she says.

“I can’t say likewise.”

“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t have hoped for much else. That business with the Leitner must have been rather hard on a little boy.”

“I’m sure the Web is truly sorry it created a book specifically targeted to eat children. I’m sure it was something of an embarrassing mistake.”

“Oh, the Mother could never regret something that brought you to her attention. She is ever so fond of you.”

“I can’t imagine why, considering I loathe everything about her.”

Her smile widens and she leans slightly forward, “I know you had a bit of a rough introduction, but there’s no need for such hard feelings. It was so long ago. I think we’d get along fantastically, Jon. We have so much in common.”

Jon can’t contain his scoff. Not that he would want to. He is _nothing_ like the Web.

“What is this about? I am incredibly uninterested in making small talk with others.”

“Really? That doesn’t seem right.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“You’ve become awfully friendly with the Archivist and her assistants. Especially, oh what’s his name, Martin, right? I’m surprised a well-established avatar would become so close to someone as expendable as an Archival assistant, but you’ve been making friends with all sorts, haven’t you?”

The mention of Martin’s name sends cold sweeping through his body. Behind his glasses, he can almost feel his irises darken to encompass his pupils and begin to bleed into the whites of his eyes, pinpricks of light brightening in a fever pitch. The allusion to Gerry, and likely whoever else Jon cares about, wipes the emotion from his face.

Annabelle continues to smile benignly at him, “I think it’d be great for us to also become close. We could accomplish much together. The Mother is happy to offer help should you need it. Your new friends have been getting into quite a lot of trouble, haven’t they? I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a little extra power to ensure their safety. You wouldn’t want to have to watch them get hurt when you knew you could have prevented it, would you Jon?”

Jon never thought he’d ever find someone’s smile more grating than Michael’s, but here he is. The world is truly vast and full of people that seem made to piss him off.

Is Annabelle threatening the members of the Archive? Or just trying to use the danger of their position as leverage against Jon? Both, probably, considering her patron. He doesn’t know why she had to single out Martin, though.

( _yes he does_ )

“I don’t think this is a conversation you want to have.”

“Why not? I think it’s going perfectly well. We have plenty to talk about.”

His typically semi-gravity-defying hair pours like rivulets down his shoulders. He looks steadily into the woman sitting smugly across from him.

“I do not have the best relationship with the sea, thanks to your ilk, but it remembers me. It remembers that I have given it a glorious meal before, and it is always ready for another.”

“There’s no need to be so hostile, Jon.”

“No, I think there is. I won’t pretend that the Web won’t always have some hold over me, because you don’t get to walk away from any of the fears once they have a taste of you. That’s obvious by now. However, I have grown quite a lot from an eight-year-old boy who only knew the sea and sky as abstract comforts. I think it would do you well to be a little frightened of me.”

Her reply is swallowed by the rushing of the ocean. The blue-green is cold around her as its colors dim to total darkness. The tears of a young boy float down with her, tiny balls of bright light that only emphasize the overwhelming enormity of her surroundings. It is implacable, unending, unable to be bargained with. The pressure weighs her down, like a puppet with strings slack. Webs are too delicate to ever be able to hold up against even the gentlest of waves. Would you like to know how they’d do amongst the stars, Annabelle?

Annabelle Cane stands up and leaves the bakery. Her tracks leave salty water in her wake.

Jon sips idly at his coffee. 

The buzzing of his phone lets him know Martin has messaged him, asking how he is, if he’s done anything interesting lately. Jon replies ‘ _nothing much’_. Feeling bit bold, he sends another text asking, _‘do you want me to bring you a pastry? I happen to be in the area.’_

* * *

A sigh snakes out of Jon’s mouth as he leans back and falls off his dock.

His head touches the surface of the thin layer of water covering the salt flat. A moment distills into an eternity as he stays suspended mid-fall. His hair snakes along the surface of the water, dark tendrils of ink mixing with the reflected sky. The lurch of Mike’s vertigo catches in his stomach and he allows himself to stay in this moment between falling and landing. Feels the familial resemblance to his own aspect of fear on his tongue and sliding like a freefall down his throat.

Then he releases his breath and finishes his fall through the water.

He falls up into the dark. It is familiar, but the journey is new. The darkness and cold and the weight of water that is not water. The pressure of the ocean. It is not something that existed here before. 

His mouth open, and for a moment he thinks he may scream. But it is elation that bursts forth. Here, of all places, in the infinite black depths of this particular ocean, Mr. Spider could not hope to hold any sway. He could not have the sea as he loves and remembers it as a child, but he could have this new one. Darker and colder, the night sky composed of another element, where spiders do not dare to tread.

The not-water rushes around him until he is suddenly released into the airy vacuum of space. Lights dance across his eyes as he floats. He grabs a star and pushes it towards where the water that transported him half-exists. There’s no reason for stars not to exist in the depths of the ocean as they do in space. They are fathomless in opposite directions and loop around to feed each other. 

The fear of their depths and the creatures they contain are the same flavor. Thinking of creatures, perhaps he should get a cat? He snorts at the mental image of an eldritch Admiral stalking the skies. But perhaps animating constellations could be viable?

He dives down towards one, feeling like Peter Pan as he loops through space. He sweeps his hand through a red-purple-blue nebula that is newly sprouting. He grabs a fistful of dust and gas and pulls it along with him. 

The nebula expands behind him like the train of a dress painted in ecstatically vibrant dye. The infant stars cradled within it are jostled in their places. Some lose their equilibrium entirely and tumble after Jon. They fall in a streaking glimmer of light, gaining speed as they go but not fast enough to catch him. 

Their downward spiral looks like a rain of sparklers. They energetically crackle somewhere between electricity and fire and neither. When Jon is satisfied with his distance, he releases the nebula and turns around.

Concentrating the burning star at the heart of him, he sends out a wave of gravitational force just as the cascading stars reach him. Like pinballs, they rebound away. They bounce against each other and throughout the nebula as if in a fit of giggles. When the stars collide, they set off fireworks of red, purple, blue, or a mixture of all three, capturing the colors of their home.

They eventually settle down in their new places within the expanded nebula. Jon is uncharacteristically satisfied with how his meddling has turned out. He doesn’t need to garden his galaxy, but he enjoys trying his hand every so often. He’d hardly consider himself an artist, but he doubts anyone could be considered more an of expert on heavenly bodies and phenomena than him at this point.

Remembering his original destination, he dips down close to Leo. Of course, Leo’s stars are unfathomably far apart, but perspective is a matter of opinion in his Domain. His opinion, specifically. 

He spends some time getting the stars to move in tandem, then trying to figure out how to get them to move independently. It would be incorrect to call his stars sentient, exactly, but it would also be incorrect to call the Entities sentient. That doesn’t mean something isn’t there.

His Domain is carved into the nook of a rib of his leviathan god. It is nestled there between reality and what he suspects to be nothingness. Potential here should be limitless, theoretically, and Jon should be able to have a star cat if he wants it.

It doesn’t seem he will be achieving his wish today, though. He sinks back with a sigh to float listlessly. He has been distracting himself from what he meant to do.

He gazes into the space that surrounds him, dazzling and fantastical. Perhaps all the more fantastic for containing nothing more than what already exists in the universe ( _if more mutable and not confined to the laws of nature or logic_ ). It is beautiful, of course, and lovely. 

And Jon’s.

“What do you think of me?” he asks to nothing or everything.

“You must know how I feel about, well, everything. You live in me, after all. I can certainly tell when you are displeased with me. Perhaps you are always at least a little displeased with me, everything considered.”

No response.

“I’m a bit surprised, maybe, that I haven’t felt anything more than usual since I’ve made my mind up about… some things. My beliefs, after all, go against you, don’t they? I’m certain my fear of inevitability, of meaning, of insignificance have fed you over the years. I know you likely only revel in my doubt. But what about my certainty? I have chosen not to believe in what you are. I have chosen _meaning_.”

The silence continues unbroken, but then, the Void has never breathed.

Jon chuckles self-deprecatingly to himself, “But I have never been good with faith, have I? Gran’s halfhearted attempts at bringing me to church certainly never stuck. No matter what, I will always fear you. Fear that nothing matters, that I can make no difference, that we are ultimately all lost in the vast expanse of the universe. And I can never know otherwise, because there will always be more to know; I will never know everything, and so I can never know the truth with certainty.”

He trails off and continues to float. A star glides down, one of the ones with unnatural orbits, and Jon catches it between his hands. He doesn’t let himself take it as a sign, because it isn’t. The only Entity less likely to give a response than his is the Lonely. 

After all, how could even its avatars matter to the enormity of the Vast?

Starlight tickles his fingers, the star both solid and not against his skin. He speaks to it contemplatively, “I do not think I will ever understand love. It is too big to know, maybe. Would it be in your Domain, then? There are certainly those that fear love, and those that love turns fearful.”

He releases his grip and lets the light return to its journey, “But that is me being sentimental. If Entities are capable of loving us as some avatars claim, it is certainly not in a shape or form resembling our own. It hurts to love you, but that is the only way you’re meant to be loved. I wonder if one day I won’t accept that?”

It is almost impossible to imagine, not loving the sky and the sea and what lies in between. The stars are his to waltz among. They are a shelter in a cruel world. 

But it is cruel here too, even if not to him ( _so long as he serves the Vast_ ).

If it is ever not difficult to love his god, then he will have been lost. And that is heartbreaking. The Vast is in him and he is its and it is his in an unequal way. It is beautiful in a way that nothing else will ever be. It encompasses his fears more that any other force could ever hope to do. Loving and fearing a tangle in his heart.

But love is not just this knot in his throat, the prayer in his heart for absolution and revelation, the desire to sprawl eternity out from end to end and lose himself somewhere in between.

No, it is also laughter, and tea, and brushing shoulders, and teasing, and tears, and long phone calls, and bandages, and a hand reaching out to you, and a _godawful_ plastic dinosaur head. The world is so warm and full and how could Jon ever be daunted by facing it when he now has so many people face it with?

Nothing last, nothing lasts. If Jon knows anything about the Vast, he knows that this is true. But deciding that only forever matters means that you will never find anything worthwhile at all. 

Jon falls from space into reality with one last parting comment.

“I will not give them up for you.”

* * *

Jon sits with Martin in a café across the street from a pizzeria that boasts some kind of special handmade dough. Tim swears by it, and bullied them into picking it up before the meeting about the Unknowing Sasha’s hosting that is likely to devolve into a game night. 

Gerry is coming, of course. Michael is bound to make periodic appearances just to see how long it takes Sasha to notice him, as has been his habit as of late. Sasha mentioned that Basira, the police officer who had investigated into Gertrude’s death, has expressed interest in coming. This means her Hunter partner may prowl around. Which is a bit more than mildly alarming. Hopefully Gerry would be able to talk her down, instead of them entering some sort of turf war.

Mike had randomly asked him if he was doing anything interesting in the coming weeks, and Jon had foolishly mentioned the gathering. He said he might “drop by”. Jon hopes he was kidding, but he knows Mike had snuck into the Archives behind Jon’s back once to talk to Sasha ( _heavens knows why_ ) and had been treated to Martin’s tea. Jon’s fairly certain he needs to restrict who Martin gives tea to, as they don’t need even more avatars crawling about.

He and Martin are both nursing a drink and chatting lightly. It’s surprisingly easy to talk to Martin, so long as they both manage not to get too self-conscious. There isn’t anything to be self-conscious about, really. It’s not like this is a date or anything.

The not-date is going swimmingly and they still have about 15 minutes until they need to head across the street to pick up the pizza. So, of course, a chill has to thrill down Jon’s spine at that very moment. His head whips to the side, too-long hair almost obscuring his vision for a moment as it flies in tune with his fury, and he scowls at the entrance to the café.

Oliver Banks stands there, clad in a black collared shirt with its sleeves rolled up and plain black pants paired with nice shoes. His smile is as toothy and white as ever, when he chooses to smile, and his braids neat. He raises his hand in greeting and takes a step in their direction.

Jon turns back to Martin, realizing he had cut himself off in the middle of a sentence and wanting to preemptively apologize for the other avatar’s presence.

The table shakes as Martin suddenly lunges half-out of his seat, pointing his finger accusingly at where Oliver has frozen, “No! Mike told me about you! I don’t care that you’re an Avatar of the End, or whatever spooky business you have going on. Jon is on a date with me, not you!”

Jon feels dumbstruck. Thunderstruck. Starstruck. ( _perhaps Lovestruck_ ). 

He never would have thought that Martin would return the feelings that Jon was pretending he didn’t have. Martin is nice, and soft, and warm, and clever, and brave. He may be involved with all the Fear Gods business thanks to his job in the Archives, but he’s only marked by Beholding. Jon didn’t think Martin would be interested in an avatar. He seems too good to like someone bound to a malicious eldritch entity, harming other humans just to survive. But here Martin is, declaring that they’re on a date together.

He doesn’t know how exactly he feels, but it’s probably somewhere between joyful and unworthy. He’s felt the latter often enough, but when was the last time Jonathan Sims experienced _joy_? Martin is truly a miracle worker.

Jon’s eyes track back to Oliver, faintly curious to see how he’s taken Martin’s declaration.

Oliver looks _delighted_.

Jon’s ( _dopey_ ) expression turns back into a fierce scowl and he feels like he should mimic Martin’s accusatory posture. He knows exactly how much trouble that expression can be, and it should not be pointed anywhere near Martin.

Martin begins to look embarrassed and unsure after his outburst, eyes sliding sheepishly to Jon. Jon decides this is the most immediate concern and grabs Martin’s hand where it’s beginning to wilt at his side.

“Yes, I _am_ on a date with Martin. And if you would excuse us, we have a pizza to pick up.”

Jon and Martin valiantly ignore the shadow trailing behind them as they pick up the pizza and head to Sasha’s place, hands shyly intertwined. Martin shoots looks back at Oliver occasionally, which Jon assumes he responds to cheekily. After Martin gives one particularly disgruntled harrumph, Jon finally casts his own eyes exasperatedly behind them. Oliver’s soft smile and incongruous thumbs up is so embarrassing that Jon refuses to look at him for the rest of the walk.

Perhaps he can get Gerry to run him off if he’s still there once they reach the apartment. Tim’s just as likely to proposition him and Sasha is bound to ask for a statement, so they’re no help. Then again, from Martin’s grumbles he’s gearing up to challenge Oliver to a round of monopoly or some other boardgame to prove his superiority.

He supposes it doesn’t matter anyway. The stars are just beginning to show in the sky above him. Martin’s hand is warm against his and their friends are excitedly waiting for them in an apartment that always feels welcoming. 

The universe is vast and intricate to the point of being unknowable, and they are all small and alive for but a moment of a moment in time.

Life is terrifying and sometimes it’s a struggle just to keep going. It’s still worth it. One day they will be gone from this world and there will come a point where no one living will ever speak their names again, but that doesn’t mean their experiences don’t matter. They have each other, and the sky and the sea are always in Jon’s reach, and while all of existence is mostly void, there are also stars. 

Here, in this moment, Jon knows what it’s like to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vast!Jon: Mostly void, partially stars. (thank you Night Vale)
> 
> (Btw Martin’s text at the end of the Annabelle section was definitely fishing about Oliver bc he heard the two had been seen together recently. His interrogation is derailed by Jon’s reply, which he furiously analyzes to figure out if it’s flirty or not. It is.)
> 
> (also feel free to ask me what dnd classes the characters would be/play in this verse bc I have them for all of Jon’s friends, sans Fuckhands McMike bc he wouldn’t be allowed to play. Except maybe as a reoccurring chaotic guest character depending on who DMs)
> 
> That’s it! There is of course more to their adventure, but this is where I’ve wanted to end it. Jon and Martin still have a lot to work through for their relationship, such as Jon fully acknowledging that Martin is capable of handling himself against other avatars and is not only made of love and fluff (which will end in *John Mulaney voice* “my boyfriend is a bitch and I like him so much”). Jon has to confront his feelings for Oliver and they have to talk about Jon’s lingering guilt over Oliver’s Becoming, although he’s coming around on that. Who knows what feelings will develop between Martin and Oliver during the epic highs and lows of Monopoly? Oliver already knows what he’s aiming for. 
> 
> But that’s for you to imagine. The world is still messy, but they all have each other. Nothing will ever be simple, but there’s something to say for actively choosing to care about the people around you despite knowing all the darkness and despair in the world.
> 
> Thanks so much with sticking with me through this story! It grew from a simple avatarswap oneshot into a full-blown AU that ended up contemplating what it means to matter in the universe. I suppose that’s what I get for thinking I could get away with only writing about the aesthetics of the Vast. I hope you have enjoyed your time with me.
> 
> Thanks again!


End file.
